Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since she opted to live alone, Uhura's dorm room is small. It’s barely wide enough for her desk, which is pulled away from the window, and pushed up against the left wall. There's a thin gap to the right, just wide enough for her to squeeze through, although she’s been assured many times that it’s probably a fire hazard.

It's an hour before sunset. The blinds are half-open, and golden light spills through. She sits in front of them on the only chair, facing Spock, who sits across the desk from her. It would look more like a formal meeting than a hangout between two friends, if it wasn't for the orange beanbag. He's perched cross-legged, perfectly balanced from years of meditation practice.

He's talking, but she's only half-aware of it, studying the edges of his face, lit up at irregular intervals by thin slats of light. He's quite beautiful, in a regal sort of way- strikingly symmetrical, as if he was designed in a lab. Perhaps he was. She's never asked; somehow, it seems rude to ask 'were you conceived in a test tube?', but sometimes she wonders. When the sunlight strikes his cheek at the right angle- on a sunny day, at times like these- she wonders if the whole world can see it.

He gives her an expectant look, and she realises he's stopped talking. She blinks.

"Sorry, sugar, say that last part again; I was miles away."

He inhales. "It is common gossip around campus that the two of us are dating."

Uhura would laugh, but she already knows, of course. In another life, the two of them would make a striking couple. Still, she had been hoping that he wouldn't find out. It seems like the sort of thing that would make him uncomfortable.

She shifts in her seat. "But we're not dating."

"No," Spock agrees. "But the fact remains, you are my closest- and only- friend. It's bound to start rumours."

Uhura tuts. "Only friend? Then who informed you of the gossip?"

He raises his chin. "I overheard-"

"Eavesdropped," she wags a finger, mock-sternly.

"- Overheard it on campus yesterday," he folds his arms.

"I get it, you couldn't help it." She refrains from making a big ear joke, but it wends itself into the silence regardless, and he raises an eyebrow. "I didn't say anything!" She protests, but the brow remains in place. If she didn't know him so well, it might look intimidating, but the beanbag really detracts from the effect.

She clears her throat. "So, is that what you wanted to talk about? You want me to dispel the rumours?"

He shuffles, almost imperceptibly, followed by a cascade of beans resettling. "On the contrary," he says, "I was hoping to encourage them."

She stares at him. Waits for the inevitable facial twitch.

He remains impassive.

Perhaps it would be impolite to laugh. Unfortunately, her mouth works just a little faster than her brain, and she stifles a giggle, and ducks down in her seat for a moment. As she moves, the shadow she casts moves with her; off his face, and he's temporarily blinded, for just long enough to allow her to lose composure. She grins to herself, and straightens up, blocking the light again.

Spock blinks.

The drawn blinds; the slanted sunlight- inspiration strikes.

She reaches for the ball of fluff in front of her, and strokes it, menacingly. It cheeps, which ruins the overall effect.

"You come here, on the day of my tribble's wedding, and ask me to be your fake girlfriend?"

The tribble is an unnatural shade of purple, and a recent addition to Uhura's dorm room. When he’s not locked in his glass tank, she allows him to roam free, although she’s only had him for three days.

"You are conducting a ceremony for Nyoto?" Spock frowns. "And I was not invited," he chides the tribble, who says nothing. Uhura is hit by a ludicrous mental image of the creature writing invites. How would he even hold a pen? He could always dip himself in ink and practise calligraphy-

She shakes it off.

"That's not his name!" She rolls her eyes. "It's from The Godfather. If we're going to fake-date, you need to step up your pop culture knowledge."

Spock tilts his head. "I believe the correct quote is, 'On the day my daughter is going to get married.' Or, in this case, tribble."

Nyoto coos, and wriggles on the desk.

Uhura sighs. "Have you seen The Godfather, or do you just memorise movie quotes so you can annoy people?"

"My intention was never to irritate," Spock says, with the slightest quirk of an eyebrow.

Uhura laughs. "You probably correct people on 'Luke, I am your father,' too."

"'No, I am your father-'"

Uhura throws the tribble at him. There’s a strangled yelp, though whether the noise came from the Vulcan or the creature, she can't be sure.

She leans forwards. "What was that?"

Spock cradles the creature for a moment, and composes himself. "I was merely-" chirp "-worried for Nyoto."

The tribble purrs.

"It is- fragile," he insists. Without warning, the tribble does a somersault, and Spock scrambles to catch it, and overbalances on the beanbag. There’s a squeak, and a cascade of beans, as the two of them land on the floor.

Uhura bites back a smile. "He's soft, but that doesn't make him fragile."

"... Indeed," Spock says, strained. He pulls himself up on the edge of the table, and rearranges himself on the seat. Nyoto curls up in the palm of his hand, and he frowns. "You called it- 'he.' I thought tribbles reproduced asexually?"

"They do." She laughs. "'Born pregnant' was the term I heard, but this one's been modified not to do that."

"Hence the he?" Spock murmurs. He pokes the tribble experimentally, then encloses him with both hands. There's a disgruntled cheep, and Spock releases him. "Curious. He can detect light, but I cannot see his eyes."

"Or, you're suffocating him," Uhura suggests, with a wicked grin.

For a split second, Spock looks horrified, and sets Nyoto down on the desk. "Possible. How does he breathe?"

She eyes the masses of purple fur in front of her. "I assume there's… Something under all of that. You'd have to ask Garn."

"Garn." Spock narrows his eyes, just for a moment. "I assume this experiment was signed off on by his instructor?

"Of course," Uhura says, careful to keep any inflection out of her voice. “He’s attempting to breed infertile tribbles. He thinks they’ll make good pets.”

Due to The Incident towards the end of Uhura's freshman year, Garn was made to retake Xenobiology, from the top. Since then, he's been much more careful…. Not to get caught.

"He asked me to take care of him. Just for a while," she says. She gestures to the small glass enclosure on top of her dresser.

"And that is why you refuse to name him?"

"That, and the fact that Nyoto is my grandfather's name." She makes a face.

Spock rests his chin on his hands, and eyes the tribble thoughtfully. "It is strange that he would ask you," he murmurs. His eyes dart up to hers.

She raises an eyebrow. "Well, my friends seem inclined to ask me all sorts of strange favours at the moment."

Spock sits up. "A fair point. Although my request does not infringe multiple academy rules."

‘Only because you turned down a teaching position in Xenolinguistics,’ Uhura thinks. "Garn would never ask me to do anything illegal," she lies. "Besides-" she narrows her eyes. "Don't change the subject." He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. He’s all eyes; faux innocence. "You still haven't told me why you want to do this,” she prompts.

He folds his hands in his lap. "I vidcalled my parents yesterday. They can be... Old-fashioned."

Uhura hesitates. "By human standards, or Vulcans'?"

Spock purses his lips. "Both." He stares at a wall for a moment, before continuing. "It is a uniquely uncomfortable position to be in. I have told you, in the past, about my betrothal to T’Pring-”

Uhura frowns. “The one who rejected you?”

Spock blinks. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Sorry,” she says, voice softer. “I know the bond didn’t… take. But that was when you were fourteen.” She frowns. “Why do they want you to get married now?”

He purses his lips, although he seems pleased that Uhura has picked up on the subtext. “I, too, thought that was to be the end of the discussion, but matters changed when I chose not to enrol in the Vulcan Science Academy, as my father had planned.” He doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “He is… concerned as to what could happen if I embark on an exploration mission without a pre-existing bond.”

“But… you’ve been on a five year mission before,” Uhura points out. “Even if it didn’t last that long.”

Three years ago, fresh out of the academy, he had joined onto the crew of the USS Fidas, captained by Christopher Pike. Its technology was a little out of date, but it was still a Constitution-class starship. It was to be its final voyage before it was decommissioned. A few months and a skirmish with the Klingons later, they were a starship and two hundred and thirty crewmen down.

Spock purses his lips. “Had that mission continued for its intended duration, it would finish two years from now, at which point I could remain on Vulcan. It would provide me with ample time to find a bondmate. With my remaining time limit, however-”

“Slow down,” Uhura touches a hand to his wrist gently, careful not to touch his hand. She doubts he would appreciate the intimacy, despite what he’s saying. “What time limit?”

He looks down at her hand, and takes a breath. “There is an...” He wrestles with Nyoto for a moment. “Event which occurs once every seven years for Vulcans, which makes it necessary to have a bondmate.”

“An ‘event’-?! Spock, stop being so cryptic! Scratch that, I’m giving you too much credit. Stop being so vague.”

His face twitches, but he remains silent. She can’t think of a single topic which would lead him to be this cagey, except, maybe-

Her mouth forms into a small ‘o’ as it hits her. “Wait.” She drops his arm. “Are you trying to tell me you’ll… go into heat sometime in the next seven years?”

He inclines his head. “That is… a crude way of putting it, but yes.”

Uhura scoffs. “A much cruder way of putting it than ‘an event’, I’m sure.”

Nyoto protests the lack of attention being paid to him, and Uhura pats him distractedly. Spock, for his part, is silent.

She sighs. “You’ve just told me you needed a bondmate. How does this tie into me pretending to be your girlfriend?”

“I am only half-Vulcan. It is uncertain if I’ll ever experience Pon Farr, but my parents believe it is better to be prepared.”

“Prepared...” She narrowly resists the urge to squeeze Nyoto like a stress ball. She frowns. “So. Most Vulcans have arranged marriages…?” She looks to him, and he nods in confirmation. “Then how come your mother is human?”

“She is my father’s second spouse. Sybok’s mother died in childbirth.”

“Sybok?”

“My half-brother.”

“- We’ve been friends for two and a half years, and you’ve never told me you had a brother?!”

“A half-brother.” Spock looks pained. “It is not relevant to this discussion.”

“Well, it’s pretty damn relevant to me pretending to be your girlfriend,” she huffs.

Spock opens his mouth, and his eyes scan from left to right. He closes his mouth again. “You are correct.”

“Any other secret siblings I should know about?” She nudges him with the tribble.

“Sybok is not one of my secret siblings,” Spock says, keeping his voice even.

Uhura laughs, and rests her head on her hand. “Okay, so, this… time limit,” she says, diplomatically. “Explain it to me.”

“The first Pon Farr usually occurs when a Vulcan male is eighteen years of age,” Spock says. “Speculation suggests, if I am to experience it at all, the cycle will continue as normal, and it is likely to occur when I am twenty five. However, because I am…”

“Overdue,” Uhura supplies.

Spock inclines his head. “It may occur sooner than anticipated.”

Uhura pauses. “You’re like an active Volcano,” she says. She smiles as she contemplates the etymological route of Vulcan and Volcano. “It could strike at any time.”

He exhales, a small puff of air. “That is my mother’s concern.” Uhura watches him. She certainly doesn’t envy Spock his status of ‘medical mystery’, although, in this case, she thinks, his parents might have a point. “She has suggested that I attempt to bond with T’Pring again,” Spock continues, stiffly. “She is worried as to what might happen to me if I do not have a bondmate when I go into space again.”

Uhura smiles in sympathy. “She doesn’t have anyone else in mind?”

Spock closes his eyes. “I find the matter every bit as embarrassing as a human might.” Uhura’s heart twinges at the small admission of emotion, and reaches for him across the table. She stops herself.

“Can I take your hand?” She asks softly.

Spock hesitates. He side-eyes her slyly. “Are you accepting my proposal?”

“Perhaps,” she rolls her eyes, and squeezes his fingers. “Talk me through your plan first.”

Gently, he grips her hand in return. “If I am to experience Pon Farr, I have another two years before it occurs.” He looks down at their entwined hands. “I had hoped that I might find my own bondmate in time, but… My father believes it would be best for me to return to Vulcan now, in order to prepare for it.”

She tilts her head. “I still don’t understand. What happens if you don’t fulfil Pon Farr?” She strokes the back of his hand. “What are you not telling me?”

He pulls away from her, and folds his arms across the desk. “I will die,” he admits.

“Spock! Don’t you think they have a point?!” She hisses.

He raises an eyebrow. “I do not intend to delay my commission to The Enterprise on account of my biology.”

“Vulcan biology,” she points out. “The biology of Vulcans.”

“Correct.”

“Your biology. The biology which will cause you to die if it’s not heeded.”

He drums his fingers against his forearms. “I hope I am to be spared it,” he says, talking over Uhura’s protestations. “I need only create the appearance of being in a relationship until I am able to board The Enterprise, in order to put my mother’s mind at rest.”

Uhura studies him for a long moment. “So, you intend to find a bondmate on The Enterprise?” She asks.

Spock hesitates. “If the situation presents itself, I shall not resist it.”

Uhura snorts. “And, I suppose, that’s as good as it’s gonna get?” He nods. She sighs, and tries again. "You're going to need a bondmate in two years. Why not do as they suggest? Head back to Vulcan-”

“No.”

“- Or find someone here, at the Academy-”

“Nyota,” Spock says softly. “If you do not wish to do this, I will accept it. But the alternatives are impossible.”

They lock eyes for a moment, a silent battle. She sighs again.

“Alright, mister,” she says, quietly. She holds her hand out to him. “Let’s do this.”

He tilts his head, but he reaches out to shake it. Her grip is firm, the kind of handshake that asserts dominance, and he tilts his head slightly. Unlike before, she doesn’t confine the contact to the back of his hand, and the pads of their fingers collide for a moment. A spark of something jumps between them. Spock gasps like he’s been electrocuted, and snatches his hand away.

Uhura stares at him, eyes wide, and breaks into a smile. “What?” She jokes, breathlessly. “I’m your girlfriend, and I’m not allowed to kiss you?”

“I-” Spock rubs his hand gingerly. “You know full well that the ozh’esta is not a perfect equivalent to a human kiss.”

She leans back on her chair. “I know.” Her eyes twinkle, and she reaches for Nyoto, who has been content to lie on the desk, in the last patch of sunlight. She looks up. "I'm still not letting you name my tribble," she tuts, as she lifts Nyotooff the table, to place in his cage. No, she thinks, the tribble.

Spock rises from the beanbag, and stands a short distance behind her. He places his hands behind his back. "Co-owning a pet is a traditional relationship activity, is it not?"

Uhura places the tribble into the glass case. "It’s a good job we're only fake-dating, then, isn’t it?" She closes the lid, and padlocks it. Spock raises an eyebrow. "It's not that I don't trust Garn," she says quickly, "But I'm not taking any risks. These things are born hungry, and horny."

*

For the first time in days, Jim Kirk wakes up in his own dorm, but not his own bed. He sits bolt upright, and winces, ramming his head on a shelf that wouldn't be there were he in his own room. He curses.

"My God, Jim, are you trying to create extra paperwork for me?" Bones asks beside him.

Jim winces as the doctor comes into focus, and rubs his temple. "What?"

Bones rolls his eyes, and places his hands on Jim’s forehead. "Paperwork. It's something they make you do in Starfleet, you might have heard of it." Despite his rough voice, his touch is feather-soft, running over the slight beginnings of a bruise. He mutters something under his breath, and turns to the bedside table.

"I haven't, actually," Jim murmurs. "Sounds boring." He risks a glance at Bones' torso and exhales, relieved to see that he's fully clothed. Still, given everything that's happened recently, he approaches the topic with caution. "Bones?"

"Mm?" He retrieves a dermal regenerator from the drawer.

Jim gestures to the duvet, vaguely. "Did we...?"

Bones keeps his back to him. “You don’t remember?” Jim’s heart races. ‘Shit,’ he thinks. Then, the drawer closes. "I'm flattered, kid, but you're really not my type."

Jim exhales. "A woman?" He grins.

Bones ignores him. "Sit still."

"Stop fussing," James says, but obliges. Bones gives the derma a quick blast, and the pain melts away. He rubs a hand over his head. "Thanks."

Bones smirks, and drops the device back into the drawer. Jim catches a glimpse of various items, and can't quite hold back the next question.

"Boooones?" He says, a slight lilt to his voice. "Why do you keep a dermal regenerator next to your bed?"

"Because my roommate's James T Kirk," Bones mutters, as he pulls a shirt on. "God help me."

Jim grins, and flops back on the pillow. "You love me really." Bones puts a dressing gown on over his pyjamas. Jim's still wearing last night's clothes, which solidifies his working theory on just how sober he was last night. At least he managed to crawl back to the correct apartment, even if he overshot the right bed.

Bones huffs. "You don't make it easy." Something flits across his face, and he slaps him on the shoulder. "Let's get breakfast."

Jim tilts his head. "The only breakfast you eat is coffee," he says.

“Not true; you’re just never up on time to see it.”

“There’s a reason for that,” James says, as he settles back down in bed.

“Oh no you don’t,” Bones grumbles, tugging him out of it again.

“Hey!”

“You’re gonna get a proper meal before that kobayashi-whatsit.”

“Kobayashi Maru-”

“Gesundheit.”

“-It’s not ‘til tomorrow. They’re doing it in alphabetical order.”

Bones’ room is about the same size as Jim’s, and equally cluttered. The doctor has a messy side he doesn't want anyone to know about, and has sworn him to secrecy. Jim once asked him if that was why he never brought anyone over.

Bring someone over?’ Bones snorted. ‘How can I? Y ou’re always here.’

“I don’t know what you’re mad about,” Jim says, as they sit at the table. “First you told me to start studying more, then you complained that I was always here, now you complain that I’m never here-”

“It’s all about balance,” Bones says, as he stirs three spoons of sugar into his coffee.

Jim narrows his eyes. “As in ‘a balanced diet’, or-?”

“Something like that.” His voice softens, and he points the spoon at him. “Eat something.”

“I always do,” Jim assures him. “You’re just… Never up late enough to see it.”

Bones grunts, and nods to the replicator. “Eat something.”

Jim gives him a strange look, but does as he’s told.

Chapter Text

Two years ago, Cafeteria Three, Starfleet Academy.

"... Then Stamets suggested there might be a link between mushrooms and interstellar travel." Sulu shakes his head. "Honestly, the guy's a nut. If he wasn't the only other guy who studied biology and physics, I'd ditch him."

Jim gives him an I-don't-believe-you smile.

Sulu raises his chin, and looks away. "He's not my type," he says, "I don't go for pale blondes."

"Oh," Jim says, with a mock pout. "Is that why we're not together?"

Sulu snorts. "I'm out of your league, James Kirk."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Hikaru."

It's sunny outside, but, when Sulu suggested they eat in the sun, he lost the argument. Sulu, absurdly confident in his revision, has only a tray of food in front of him, whereas James has his usual array of open books. His attention is, at present, on the PADD in front of him. He taps through something with one hand, and eats clumsily with the other. Sulu winces as a smattering of crumbs narrowly miss an oversized book (on the spine of which is written: 'Starfleet Academy. Reference Only. Do Not Remove From Library').

"I still can't believe Janice went for you," Sulu shakes his head. "You're punching above your weight there, bookworm."

James barely glances up. "She says that, too."

Sulu picks up one of Jim's books. "What do you even need these for, James? 'A Biography Of Abe Lincoln'?", he asks, reading the worn blue cover. "'A Brief History Of the Eugenics Wars'- brief!" He exclaims, thumbing through its nine hundred pages with exaggerated dismay. "And- is that my textbook-?" He pokes at a familiar-looking cover.

"Oh, right," Jim slides it across the table to him, "I'd been meaning to give that back."

Sulu shakes his head. "I thought you were studying for that emergency engineering exam tomorrow."

"I said I was studying; I never said what for."

"Productive procrastination is still procrastination," Sulu reminds him. James makes a face. He frowns, and picks up a yellow data solid. "What's this?"

"Relaxation," Jim says, but there's a strange lilt to his voice.

Unsure if he's being made fun of or not, Sulu settles back in his chair. "Well, I'm glad you're not taking it too seriously."

The smirk on Jim's face acknowledges the fact that he never takes anything seriously.

Sulu changes tack. "Everyone else waits 'til senior year to take it; why now?"

Jim shrugs. "Might as well get it out of the way."

"Mm.” He points at him accusingly. “Plus, it gives you the chance to retake."

Jim's eyes blaze with determination. "I won't need to." He taps the PADD again. "Gary Mitchell said all they do is suspend you from a couple of wires; make sure you can fix a circuit upside down, that sort of thing."

Sulu glances at the upside-down PADD, which shows a digital mock-up of a starship circuit, in blue. "Which, presumably, is what you're studying now."

As usual, it's unclear if Jim is merely good at multitasking, or has never heard of focusing your attention on one thing at a time. He minimises the window of whatever schematics he was studying, and taps at the screen.

"Exactly. I'm not going to retake anything if I can help it," he says.

"But if you won't settle for less than perfect-"

Sulu tenses. A high scream spills across the cafeteria. A chair scrapes the floor. Jim wheels round in his seat.

The screams are coming from the edge of the cafeteria, near the replicators. People scatter. Heads turn. The shrieking sweeps across the hall in a steady wave. Cadets begin to leap onto the tables, and there's a smattering of curses and exclamations. Someone leaps up and hops away, face aghast, as the rest of their table quickly follows. The one thing they have in common, though, is they all seem to be looking at their feet.

Jim touches Sulu's shoulder. The two of them share a glance, and rise in unison. The table nearest to them is upturned, as a green tendril wiggles towards them, and comes to rest by their feet. It's pale in colour, strange fronds run along its spine, and magenta, pulsating droplets.

Jim's eyes widen. "Are those-?"

"Yes," Sulu confirms, standing suddenly. "Whatever you do; don't let the sprinklers turn on!" He hurries towards the replicators.

*

Jim hops over the vines and stumbles in the opposite direction, towards the exit to the dining hall. To the left of the doorway is a large box, and he ignores the large red button that's set into it. He tugs at the panelling. It resists easily enough, but it's not screwed down, so he tries again. The corner of it comes loose with a crack, and he prises it upwards-

A hand closes around his wrist.

"Why are you attempting to sabotage the alert system?" Asks a deep voice.

Jim attempts to pull his arm free, and fails. The hold doesn't even waver. Holds him with an almost unnatural strength. He jerks his head towards the dining hall.

“The plants,” he hisses. He looks up, into the face of a Vulcan, eyebrow raised imperiously.

“Indeed,” he says, voice measured. “Given the emergency, I thought we might make use of the alert system.”

Jim attempts to pry the fingers off, and the Vulcan restrains his other hand.

"Listen- ow, Christ, you're strong-" he hisses, and struggles in vain to squirm free from the grip. "OK, hey- hey!"

The Vulcan makes no move to release him, but his eyes grow a little softer. "I suggest you cease, cadet."

He winces, and goes still. "Fine." He grits his teeth. Heart pounding, he inclines his head back to the dining hall. "Those vines in there-? They're Parvellaforms. They thrive on water. You think they're bad now? If the sprinklers go off, then we'll have an even bigger problem. Literally."

The Vulcan's grip loosens. "How do you know this?" His voice is still ripe with suspicion. At least, that's what Jim infers, from the careful monotone. Perhaps Vulcans are just like that.

"I took a biology module last term-” he glances back at the chaos, but Sulu is nowhere to be seen. “My friend is studying physics and xenobiology. He-” he twists his arm away, “Confirmed it.” The Vulcan watches him in stunned silence, and Jim powers through, "Stop me if you want, but these plants'll expand to cover the exits, and everyone will be trapped inside. They'll panic.”

Someone runs past, screaming.

“Oh, good,” Jim murmurs, as he fumbles with the panel. Straining with effort, he separates it from the wall with a short tug.

"Allow me," the Vulcan says. There's a strange glint in his eyes, and Jim steps aside without question.

In one swift motion, he grabs hold of the mechanism, and tears the wires out.

Jim whistles. "I suppose that's more effective," he says, with a smile.

The Vulcan inclines his head, and pulls out a communicator and contacts someone to attend to the cafeteria. As he signs off, Jim overhears his name- Spock- and smiles.

“I’m James, by the way. James Kirk.” He rubs his wrist absent-mindedly, and Spock’s eyes flare with momentary regret.

“I.. apologise,” he says, haltingly.

“You did what you had to,” Jim says.

“Indeed. Do you have any idea why the replicators were tampered with?”

"It's the end of term. Prank season," Jim says. "Someone probably thought it would be funny.”

Spock watches him carefully. “I see.”

A swarm of people are escaping the cafeteria. Spock side-steps in time, but someone crashes into Jim. Firm hands grab his shoulders, and he looks up.

“Sulu?”

“Come on.” Sulu tugs his arm. “Let’s get out of here before Containment arrive. They’re like fascists, and I’d rather keep this shirt.”

“Wait-” Jim looks round, but Spock is nowhere to be seen.

“Jim!”

“… Nevermind.”

They speed up, and Sulu places a hand on the small of his back. “Stop smiling like that,” he murmurs, as they slip out of a side-door into the courtyard. “People are going to think we had something to do with it.”

“I know,” Jim grins.

“Please do not leave the building!” Barks a robotic voice behind them. Sulu swears, and takes off running.

“Hey!” Jim laughs, and tears after him.

He swears he can still feel his wrist tingling where Spock touched him.

Chapter Text

The Enterprise was completed two months ago, with the intention of embarking on a five-year mission. Spock is one of many pre-approved crew members who’s been grounded here for a while. Like him, most of them took teaching assignments, but he splits his time between doing odd jobs for The Vulcan Embassy and providing research assistance at the academy. Today, he’s scheduled for the latter, so he meets Uhura outside her dorm, to walk her to the Xenolinguistics building.

Uhura’s building is far from the rest of the dorms, and nestled out of the way behind the cybernetics department. It’s an old concrete building, painted in faded shades of pastel blue and green. The third floor- Uhura’s- is a pale cyan. A bridge connects the top floor of the two buildings. The cybernetics building is surrounded by shiny metal cladding, but inside, it’s little more than a large hall surrounded by a few labs. People rarely come down here- aside from today, it seems. Uhura stops in surprise.

“What’s with the mass-migration?” She murmurs. A few feet away, ten or more students are gathered around the door. Most of them are dressed in red jumpsuits- cadets although one or two of them are wearing grey. As near as she can figure, the academy uniforms aren’t designed to mirror the ones available on starships; although Spock and a few other scientists are wearing blue. She’s engineering-track, but the shade of red engineers and security wear on starships aren’t as intense as the crimson cadet uniform.

“The command-track simulations are being run today,” Spock says.

She blinks. “Didn’t you help program that? Are you invigilating it?”

“Yes… And, yes,” Spock blinks.

“You could have taken the bridge!”

He inclines his head. “We have time to spare. And it was my intention was to accompany you to work, not the reverse.”

She smiles. Wildflowers poke up between the paving stones, and she's careful not to step on them. A bee lands on an orange petal, and Spock follows her lead, carefully treading around it.

A flash of blue catches her eye- a bright spot amongst the crowd of red. A Vulcan in a science uniform is making their way towards the doors. “Hey,” Uhura nudges Spock. “Do you want to hold hands?”

He follows her gaze. “That is unnecessary,” he says. “We need only to encourage the existing rumours, not-”

“- At least let me escort you.” She sticks her arm out.

“Very well.” He accepts it.

They continue down the path in silence, as their reflections walk parallel to them on the side of the building.

“Tell me again why we can’t just vidcall your mother,” She says at last. “I know Vulcans can’t lie outright, but if we continue implying, the news will take years to reach them.”

“I estimate it won’t take long. Vulcans are more observant than humans."

She narrows her eyes. “And yet, the rumours originated on campus, not with your Vulcan colleagues.” She watches him. “Do they think we’re dating?”

“No,” Spock says, quickly.

Uhura smirks. “I know hand-holding is obscene by Vulcan standards, but-”

“That is an exaggeration,” Spock says.

“Well, then, why don’t we exaggerate? It might speed things along.”

“It will not come to that. There is no need to be... explicit,” he says, stiffly.

Uhura laughs. “Well, that’s a relief.”

Spock still holds his shoulders stiffly. “The Vulcan you saw was my associate. T’Nara.” He frowns. “I do not believe she spotted us.”

Uhura tilts her head. “Did you… Want her to spot us?”

He purses his lips. “In my discussions with her, I have noticed a significant increase in non-work related topics.”

“Small talk.”

“Perhaps. I believe she is attempting to appeal to my human side.” He stops walking. “I believe she is preparing to proposition me.”

“Pr-? As in, a marriage proposition?!” She taps his arm. “Haven’t you ever heard of dates on Vulcan?”

“We have certainly heard of them.” His lips purse, and he continues walking.

Uhura shakes her head. “Spock! Couldn’t you just pretend to date her? It would be more efficient.”

He shakes his head. “She would not be interested in anything less than a true courtship, and she would not approve of deception.” He says the word with such distaste that Uhura can tell he views this as a last resort. “More to the point,” he says, “I am not attracted to women.”

Uhura sighs. “Well, I know that. You just have to make sure she does.”

“That would be contrary to the goal of having her testimony inform others of our relationship.”

She rolls her eyes, and they continue in silence for a few steps. She squeezes his arm. “This is very traditional of us, you know. It’s like a lavender marriage.”

He blinks. “I am unfamiliar with that term.”

“Hmm. I doubt it was part of a standard Earth-history lesson,” she smirks. “In the past, human LGBT couples, say, a lesbian and a gay man, used to get married so they could pass as heterosexual in public.” She tilts her head. “I’m not sure what they’d make of your reasons, though.”

Spock blinks. “That seems...”

“Logical?”

He nods.

“I thought you’d like it,” she smiles.They arrive at her building, and she squeezes his arm again, then releases it. “I’ll see you later,” she says. “Have fun torturing command-track!”

*

“The revolution is successful. But survival depends on drastic measures.”

The sunset over New Anchorage is beautiful. Patches of crimson stain the pink-sky, chasing away the fettered embers of the second sun. A planet of two sunsets, night time on Tarsus lasts for only five hours. With the perpetual summer, crops, drunk on sunlight, grow with an unrelenting forgiveness. That is, until the summer of 2246.

“Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society.”

James struggles, but strong arms hold him back.

Once the crop failed, the greenhouses were converted into disintegration chambers almost overnight. To this day, Jim doesn't know if the workers who installed the atomic dispersers were told it would only be used to destroy the dead wheat, but they must have had an inkling of its true purpose.

“Your lives mean slow death for the more valued members of the colony.”

Large domes nestle in fields of pink grass. A collection of plants from far and wide. A curious blue fungus that creeps over ears of grain. It's beautiful, in its own way- cynically beautiful, because once it reaches the warehouse, it becomes all-consuming, devouring, smothering, and Jim can’t stop it. There’s only one thing that stops the nightmares.

"I don't want to have this dream anymore," he whispers. The hands clawing at him vanish.

He lies still for a moment, heart pounding wildly, and tries to catch his breath. They come in small, tight gasps. Red sunset. Pink skies. Crimson light refracts inside the dome, and a thousand people are dispersed into nothingness. There’s no blood, not really; just a trick of the light. Kodos promised them a painless death.

He pushes the duvet to his mouth, and stifles a sob.

A guard pulls out his communicator. “Arboretums two and three, report.”

“Two here. It’s done.”

The guard nods. “Three. One more round to go here, governor, then we’re done.” There’s a crackle while they wait for a reply.

He steadies his breathing. He can't shake the vision of a hexagonal pane of glass, glittering pink in the sun.

“Kodos says let him go.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “The kid’s not from Epsilon.”

“But he was in the embassy with-”

“Kodos’ orders.”

Jim escapes on a mere technicality. He knows exactly what he should do. He should turn, return to the dome, and open the doors. Smash the glass, so the people inside can escape.

But he doesn’t.

*

The Kobayashi Maru is held in the cybernetics centre: a great, imposing building at the edge of campus. When Jim arrives, there are already thirty or so people gathered outside, in an uneven line. Some of them are slumped, half-asleep, but others look about as nervous as Jim feels. A blonde man catches his eye, and smirks: Ron Tracey. Jim gives him a tiny smile, and leans against the wall with a sigh. The metal has been warmed slightly by the sun.

A tall Vulcan approaches from the other side of campus, dressed all in blue. Spock. As he approaches the doors, he makes eye contact with Jim, nods once, and heads inside. Jim blinks, and the butterflies in his stomach ease a little. For some reason, the reminder that Spock will be there to watch over him is comforting, somehow. After all, he hadn't turned him in after what happened in the cafeteria-

“Hey,” someone claps him on the shoulder. Jim jumps, and turns to the laughing face of Gary Mitchell. “Whoa. Sorry,” Gary grins. “You’ve taken so many extra exams, I’d have thought you’d be immune to nerves by now.”

“Me too,” Jim murmurs. “Bad dreams.”

Gary frowns. “About-?”

“Command-track candidates,” a voice says. Jim turns. The door is which is being held open by a tall woman in a green dress. “You may enter the exam hall.”

Jim gives Gary an apologetic smile, and they file into the hall. There are five nurses in the room, all dressed in a pale blue, and a few adjudicators, all in grey. Bones stands in the corner with his arms folded. When Jim tries to make eye contact with him, he fixes his eyes on the wall.

Spock's disappeared.

Jim frowns. There’s a large observation window set into the wall, but the glass is tinted. As he takes a seat on the edge of a biobed, he raises a hand, looks directly at the window, and waves. He grins to himself, and imagines Spock with a baffled expression, although the gesture probably wasn’t enough to break that famous Vulcan composure.

A voice is piped in through the loudspeakers as a slightly hoarse voice begins to read through the safety disclaimers.

“As you know, the Kobayashi Maru is a third-year command-track simulation.” Jim folds his hands in his lap, and tries to be attentive. He had a habit of zoning out during pre-exam speeches during high-school, and it almost impacted his grade. As the voice talks, the lights in the hall are turned down.

Gary raises his hand. “Why has the test been modified this year? I thought it was usually done via roleplaying, and-”

"Tests such as these suffer if the subject is aware they’re being tested. The exam has been altered this year to compensate for this.”

“- Told you it was a psych exam,” Tracey mutters to the person next to him.

There’s a chime, and something lights up on the bedside table.

“Please apply this to your left temple.”

Jim reaches for it. It's a thin strip of plastiform, pale blue, and transparent enough that he can make out the microscopic wires inside.

"This will suppress your memories, and help you fully submerge into the simulation. It will be as harmless as dreaming.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Tracey asks again, and there are a few nervous titters.

“That’s your choice, but completion of this exam is a necessary part of Command-Track Training.”

Tracey mutters something else, and peers at the strip.

There’s a mass rustle as everyone moves to lie back, and the sound reminds Jim of the last time he sat an actual, paper exam. Everyone turns the page in unison, coughs in unison, and makes little chair scuffles when they think they can get away with it.

The Academy has always given then digital exams, but the memory of the distraction never fades.

Jim places the strip of plastiform across his left temple as instructed, and his eye twitches. It's almost like applying a cooling gel.

“The exam is to be conducted at your own pace. Upon completion, do not leave the room until you’ve been discharged by the attending physician.”

Jim shivers, and he catches sight of Bones again. His eyes begin to droop against his will, and he jolts back awake.

“Do not fight the inducer,” a voice says, and it could be the chief examiner, or a nurse, or his own subconscious, because suddenly, he’s drifting. An assortment of rapid images flash past his vision as he’s forced into REM sleep. Pink skies. Domes, glittering in the sun. A thousand particles disintegrating into nothing...

The medbay on The Enterprise-A is as over-crowded as Tarsus was, and Jim lies on a makeshift biobed.

“… malnourished,” a person with a clipboard says, looking directly at him. James doubts that’s the only problem. Sure, he hasn’t eaten in three days, but nothing could make the gnawing in his stomach go away.

“I don’t understand,” he mutters. “Is this part of the exam?” He places a hand to his torso, and his ribs seem to stick out.

“Shhh,” says doctor Poole. They rest a hand on his forehead. “I’m going to put you to sleep for a while, so you can get better.”

“I’m already asleep,” James slurs, his tongue too heavy for his mouth as he sinks into the pile of blankets. He recognises a face in the medbay behind Poole, and struggles to sit up again. “Bones?” He murmurs. “Bones!”

The doctor frowns at him, and places a finger to his lips, as Jim sinks into the darkness.

“-aptain?”

He jolts awake. He’s on the bridge of The Enterprise-A, in the Captain’s chair, and he places a hand to his stomach.

“Sweet dreams?” Bones asks, sarcastically, and Jim frowns.

The Enterprise-A was destroyed-

“Jim.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m wide awake now-”

“Captain,” Uhura says again. “I’m receiving a distress call from The USS Kobayashi Maru. They’re stranded in the neutral zone, surrounded by Klingon ships.” She looks up. “They’re under attack.”

Jim clenches his fist. “We’re going in.”

“If we go in there, we’ll be in violation of the treaty-”

“Even on a rescue mission?”

“Especially on a rescue mission," Bones says, wearily. “They want us to violate their airspace.”

Jim frowns. Bones would never condone leaving anyone to die.

“We’re going in,” he says, firmly.

 Lights flash.

"Three minutes 'til total shield collapse, Captain-”

“And that's three minutes more than the Kobayashi has,” Bones says.

Jim gestures to him, although, really, why is the doctor filling in as helmsman? He should be down in medbay-

An explosion rips through the thought.

"Shields at 43% integrity."

"Hold. We need to buy them time.”

“Great. Who’s going to buy us time?” Bones grouches.

The Kobayashi edges out of the way. “We can't take this barrage forever, Captain,” an ensign says. “Shields at 42 per-" Another explosion rocks the ship. "- 37%. We can't take another direct-”

Hit.

He awakes with a dry gasp. The hall, once deathly silent, is filled by the low hum of voices.

“It's OK, Jim,” says a familiar voice. He bolts upright, the dying embers of the dream still burning in his mind. He glances up, and a face is hovering over him. He feels like he's floating; his eyes won't focus.

“Bones?”

“Hang on,” the doctor says, as he peels the strip off Jim’s left temple. The world comes into sharper focus, and he relaxes a little. He looks up at the scuffed ceiling. The cybernetics centre. Bones strokes his thumb once, twice across the spot on his temple, then withdraws his hand. “You know where you are?”

“Mm.”

“You've just completed the Kobayashi Maru.” Bones checks the readings on the wall behind them, and Jim can hear the thrum of a monitor. He cranes his head to look at it.

“Successfully?” He winces. The memories come flooding back to him, and he grimaces. “Ugh.”

“Don’t feel bad. Everyone else’s ship blew up, too.”

Jim exhales, feels the steady thrum beneath his ribcage, and closes his eyes. “I guess I've just lost my bet with Sulu.”

“Now why's that?”

“Because I bet him I could graduate without retaking a single exam.”

Bones raises an eyebrow. “That's a bet you can still win.”

Jim shakes his head. “You know I can’t. I’m going to apply for a resit. Or a re... Lie,” he swings his legs out of bed. “Doesn't matter-”

Bones grabs him by the arms, and pushes him back down on the bed. “Oh no you don't. You just sit pretty for a moment.”

“Hey. I'm only your fake-patient.”

“A patient with elevated heart rate and respiration,” Bones growls. “Your body doesn't know that you were only in a simulated explosion.” He grabs a hypo. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Jim sinks into his pillow. "Fine."

“You completed it faster than some of the other cadets,” Bones says. To their right, Gary Mitchell wakes up with yelp. “- if that’s any consolation.”

“You mean I got blop faster than the others." He turns his head. "Gary, are you alright?”

Gary places a hand to his head, and peels the strip off with a grunt. “I knew there was something wrong. I couldn’t sense...” he sees Bones standing over them, and clears his throat. “What about you?” He locks eyes with Jim.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Jim lies.

They lock eyes for a moment.

“Excuse me,” Bones says, as he goes to comfort another screaming cadet. “You're not off the hook! Stay put until your readings return to normal.”

Gary radiates a reassuring sort of warmth, and Jim rolls onto his side to look at him.

“It felt… cold in there,” Gary says, in a low voice. “Even before my ship exploded, it was like being in a- a void-”

“Gary,” Jim murmurs.

“Sorry.” He breathes, and smiles sheepishly. After two years of friendship, Gary’s high psi-sensitivity is a badly-kept secret. For a moment, Jim allows himself to believe that Gary’s emotions may be effecting his own anxiety.

“I hope it hasn’t thrown off my results.”

“Why would it do that?”

“Well… I was aware I was being tested,” he whispers. “That was the whole point, right?”

There’s a tightness in Jim’s throat, and he swallows. “Yeah. Maybe.” They lapse into silence again, as the rest of the cadets wake up, one by one.

Seven years ago, the fastest way to get to the outer-colonies was through the neutral zone. Given the eventual fate of The Enterprise-A, it’s impossible to blame Captain April for choosing to go the long way around. Still, the fact remains: by avoiding the neutral zone, they arrived too late to save the 4,000 colonists.

“Jim.”

Too late to stop Kodos.

Gary sighs. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

*

Jim lies in his first-year dorm. The room’s too-small, and the bed’s pushed all the way into the corner. He studies the pale-green walls. The colours are just a little too bright, the night sky a little too dark, and the bedside lamp just a little too dim.

Bones leans over him, trapping him against the wall. “Bones, come on,” Jim says, with the slightest laugh. “I can’t-”

He’s cut off by rough lips on his. An awkward angle. He moves- whether to lean in to the kiss, or cringe away, he's not sure- but Bones bears down on him, crushing him against the bed. He raises a hand, pushes his chest, but Bones doesn’t give. It’s possible that he doesn’t feel Jim’s hand, and he tangles it into the front of his shirt, fingers twisting at the fabric. Bones still doesn’t stop. Jim turns his face away, but the biting kisses continue against his cheek. He nudges his jaw, pushes him again, not-quite slamming his hand against his chest, but the man doesn’t budge. This isn’t real, some part of him thinks. It can’t be. It never happened. It’s not ha-

His eyes snap open, his arm stretched out to fend off an invisible attacker. His breathing stutters. Normally, he’d turn to Bones after a nightmare, but he doesn’t think he could face him right now. It wasn’t him, he reasons. He would never- couldn’t...

He stares at the ceiling, heart slowing to a lazy tap-dance as he rolls onto his side. Unsteady hands reach for the glass of water on his bedside table. The water has gone stale, filled with small bubbles of trapped air, but he swishes his mouth out with it anyway. Zinc. Iron. Oxygen. Blood. Teeth on teeth. Washing out the old bitterness with a new one. When he closes his eyes, Bones’ face leers down at him, an unnatural expression for such a gentle face. Sharp eyes. The hard set of his jaw.

Teeth bared, biting him hungrily, as if to consume him. He inhales, sips from the cup again, and winces. It seems to hydrate and dehydrate him all at once. The replicator is only fifteen steps away down the hall, but he can’t even fathom standing. He’s slept with water within arms reach of him since he was fourteen.

He doesn’t imagine that the doctor kisses like that. He can’t imagine any healer kissing like that. Feral. Hungry. Unhinged. Bones’ kisses are probably soft, like kissing pillows. Not that Jim has ever kissed a pillow, but he's bitten down on enough to be intimately familiar. His hand tightens around the glass. The dream felt wrong for multiple reasons. The nightmare. The kissing. The way ‘Bones’ held him.

There’s only one person who kisses like that. Janice Lester.

He inhales. Exhales. Focuses on breathing. The unsettled feeling doesn’t go away. For the first time in years, he remembers Dr Nina Babtes, the therapist he had after Tarsus. She’d probably try to think rings around the nightmare, to explain it away.

‘You must have some reason you’re angry with your roommate;’ she’d say. ‘If you’re projecting your memories onto him-’

‘No, no no,’ another voice interrupts. 3705-X, though a robot, was sometimes a better therapist, although they wouldn’t have reacted to the compliment. ‘The patient is reinterpreting his trauma in a new context, where he feels safer. It is a healthy thing. It means he is beginning to accept it.’

Talking to 3705-X always felt more like reading a book than having a conversation, although that’s always where Jim’s felt safest.

He remembers a conversation he’d had with Bones a while ago. They weren’t quite drunk- never really had the time or tolerance to get more than tipsy around each other- but they both lounged on the sofa, each holding a cup of some nasty whiskey one of the med students had smuggled onto campus.

“I’ve not had much practise at kissing,” Bones admits.

“You had a wife,” Jim stifles a giggle.

Bones grunts. “Not that she’d notice.”

He laughs. “You have a kid!”

“Exactly!” Bones points at him. “I got married when I was sixteen, Jim. Sixteen. What’s sixteen?! You, you’ve had plenty of time to-”

The sentence is drowned out by Jim’s laughter. He takes another sip of the ‘whiskey’, and resists the urge to cough. “I don’t think kissing is a ‘practise makes perfect’ sort of thing, he says, hoarsely. “I think some people are bad at kissing no matter how many times… or different people… they try it with.” There’s a strange feeling in his stomach, like plummeting, and he claws his fingers into the arm of the chair for support. “But I think kind p eople kiss well. Because it’s about empathy, right?”

Bones grunts, and Jim doesn’t dare look at his face.

“And… other people-” he tilts the glass, and tilts his head with it. Pretends to study the way the light refracts. Remembers wondering if kissing should leave your lips bruised, chapped, exposed, raw. Panicked. Drowning. The relief in resurfacing. “Other people are bad at kissing no matter what,” he says. “Because they don’t care for others. If they never see them as a different person, with thoughts, and-”

Bones is on his feet. Jim looks up for the first time, and sees the frozen, solemn expression on his face. They don’t have to talk about it. Bones already knows about the break-up. And, one day, Jim will tell him about Tarsus.

Bones is just… Standing there. In front of him. Eyes sad, and a little too understanding. Open body language. An invitation. After just a moment’s hesitation, Jim places the whiskey glass on the table, and leans into the hug.

Jim blinks at the ceiling, and exhales. That's the real Bones. He swings his legs out of bed, grabs the empty glass, and seeks out the replicator.

Chapter Text

Uhura gives the screwdriver a particularly vicious twist, and the final screw comes loose. She wrenches the panel free, and deposits it on the floor with a clatter. Beside her, Garn looks up.

"Jesus. What did my wall ever do to you?"

She shoots him a look. "Do you want this fixed, or not?"

He raises his hands, and makes a few, exaggerated bows. "Sweet Nyota. Kind Nyota. Please fix my electrics."

She rolls her eyes. "You never call the repair droids," she mutters. She sticks a hand inside, and fumbles around blindly for a moment. "If you attended your tech modules, you'd be able to do this yourself."

"Plants and wires don't mix," he sighs, wistfully. "I’m never trying that again-"

“What the hell?” There's a clatter. The screwdriver falls to the ground, and Uhura stumbles backwards, clutching something.

"What? What?!" Garn leaps to his feet, but doesn't come any closer.

Uhura breathes, and regains her balance. She offers forth a clump of bright green algae, wrapped around a wire. It looks a bit like seaweed. “You were saying?”

"Galapamayus!" Garn exclaims, and snatches it from her. She wipes her palm on the front of her tunic, and grimaces.

"What is that?” Garn coos over the plant, stroking its fronds, and offers no further explanation. The plant wriggles slightly in his hand, unfurling small green tendrils and coiling around his fingers. "Garn, what is it?"

He tears his eyes away, and gives her a sheepish look. "Galapamayus. A plant from Pama Greenus six. It translates to 'Eater Of Light,' though really, they're after-"

"Heat.” She touches the panel gently.

He inclines his head. "’Eater of warmth’ is more accurate," he says, as he wraps the Galapamayus sprout in a piece of cloth, “But it doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

"Eater of warmth, consumer of electrics," Uhura mutters, as she looks at the mess it's made of the circuitboards.

"It's not deliberate," he huffs. "You're a good lil plant, aren't you-?"

"- Do they seek affection, too, or do you need to be quarantined for excessive babbling?"

Garn pouts, then breaks into a smile. "Nyota, that Vulcan's been rubbing off on you-"

"Spock." She folds her arms.

"- Spock." He tuts. "I thought you'd have learned by now; the most basic rule of gardening- well, biology in general, really, but no good xenobiologist has ever reared a garden without-"

"Garn."

"- gardeners on Earth used to sing to their plants and it made them grow faste-"

At the look on her face, he breaks off. “That is to say… Every living thing seeks affection.” He tucks the plant into his breast pocket.

She unfolds her arms, and turns back to the open panel. "Well, that one's snapped three wires and fused the replicator feeds together." She frowns. "How'd it been get in here, anyway? The panel was sealed."

Garn pats the lump in his pocket. "Dunno. We have a few samples of it in greenhouse nine, to study the relationship between parasitical-"

"- How did it get into your wall panel, Garn?"

"Oh.” He shrugs. “Could be the spores."

"Spores." She raises her hand, and studies it with a grim expression.

"It could have stuck to another plant without me noticing."

Uhura glances at the plants on the windowsill. The exotic fronds, which had once seemed beautiful, were now deeply problematic. Like a public figure drunk-posting on the holonets. She pulls out her communicator. “We need to-”

“I’ll get them out of the wall,” he promises.

"- This goes beyond that, Garn. We need to decontaminate your room immediately, if you don't want a repeat of-”

“It's under control!”

She gestures to the overhead lights, which haven’t turned on in weeks, the broken environmental controls and the empty, sparking husk of a replicator. "You really want to live like this?"

He squirms. “Well, no, but I can't call the repair droids, Ny.”

“No, why bother? ‘Nyota’s got nothing better to do, I’ll just call her-!’” A wire snaps free in her hand, and she stumbles backwards with a curse. “That’s it.” She reaches for her communicator again. “We need the repair dro-”

“No-” he rushes forwards. “Wait.” He rubs the back of his neck, and lowers his voice. “Let’s just say… some of the plants in here haven’t exactly cleared the academy’s infestation protocol.”

“Gareth Narn!”

“-They’re perfectly safe!” He says, quickly. “And, technically, the campus has no rules against them.”

“Then there should be no trouble calling the repair droids-”

“- Except you said it yourself; I can’t have a repeat of The Cafeteria Incident.”

Uhura mutters under her breath in Swahili. “Fine. I’ll fix the panel. But this is the last time.” She spends the next five minutes pushing green tendrils out of the way with her screwdriver, flicking the algae away every time it tries to give her little caresses, and untangling organic matter from the electrics. After a moment, she reconnects the

The panel sparks to life, and Garn cheers.

“You still can’t use the replicator until the repair droids see it,” she chides him.

“Still. You’re a lifesaver. Literally.” He runs his fingers over one of the plants on the windowsill. “If there’s ever a way to repay you, let me know.”

Her eyes dart to the pavement outside his window. “Actually,” her face breaks into a sly smile. “I think there might be.” She hesitates, and scowls at her hand again. “After I’ve decontaminated.”

*

The foyer of the Vulcan embassy is modest. The walls are painted a dark red, perhaps to remind visitors of the deep-coloured sands of home. From what Uhura can remember of the embassy on Vulcan, the colour scheme is the same there; although Vulcan has the temperature to match. The Vulcan woman behind the front desk, T’Audre, wears heavy, dusty-orange robes. She’s run the embassy for at least as long as Uhura’s been studying at Starfleet, yet she never seems to have acclimated to the comparatively milder temperatures of Earth. Perhaps, if Spock is anything to go by, it’s impossible for Vulcan physiology. If anything, Spock has done the best at adjusting- certainly, when compared to the Vulcans in their heavy robes, he’s underdressed.

“Hi, T’Audre,” Uhura smiles. The woman is pale-skinned, almost milky white, with cropped dark-brown hair.

“Good afternoon, cadet Uhura,” she replies. “Are you here to see Selnar?” As a go-between for the VSA and Starfleet, the Vulcan-language professor often provides extra tutoring on the ground floor of the embassy. He reminds her a little of a vampire- he’s one of the few Vulcans she’s seen who doesn’t wear colourful robes (or a Starfleet uniform), instead choosing mostly-black fabric. The occasional white sash is about as colourful as he gets. Then, there’s his waxy complexion. If T’Audre is pale, Selnar is practically translucent.

Uhura smiles. “Spock, actually.”

T’Audre glances at the set of sliding glass doors. They lead to an open waiting area where Selnar usually holds his Vulcan lessons. Spock sits on one of the yellow sofas, beside a teenage Vulcan named Sonar. They’ve spoken a few times in passing, and, if she remembers correctly, he’s T’Audre’s oldest child. Sonar is wearing dark blue robes, and Spock appears to still be wearing his academy science jumpsuit. It’s a slightly lighter shade of blue, although he’s put on a light-emerald flannel shirt, which instantly transforms it into the Vulcan equivalent of “casual wear.”

Other than them, the room is empty, and the boy is showing Spock something on his PADD. Uhura smiles, and watches Spock explain something to him, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Spock looks up, and tilts his head at her. He turns back to Sonar and says something, and the teen nods, once. As Spock leaves the room, Sonar blinks at him and Uhura in turn, raises an eyebrow, and then returns his attention to his PADD.

‘Huh,’ Uhura thinks, ‘Maybe this will be as easy as Spock thought.’ Then again, there are countless logical reasons that Spock and her could be in the Vulcan embassy together, especially given her interest in xenolinguistics. Time to step it up a notch. What’s something Vulcans would recognise as flirting? Dying a little inside, she waves at him as a high-pitched giggle bubbles out of her. He actually stops walking in surprise.

She leans against the welcome desk, and flashes him a smile. "Sorry I'm late. I had to pay a visit to a decon chamber." Her hair, though tied back, is noticeably dishevelled.

"A decon chamber." Spock’s eyes narrow. “I assume you paid Garn a visit?”

“Yeah,” She sighs. Her eyes dart around the Vulcan embassy. “Interesting choice of meeting location. It’s very… logical.”

Spock closes his mouth. “I had hoped more people from the VSA would have returned here, but it seems they will be working late.”

“Well, it’s just as well; I don’t think any of them would buy that this was a date.”

T’Audre raises an eyebrow, moves to the end of the foyer, and studies her PADD pointedly.

Uhura lowers her voice. “We’ve hung out in public before,” she explains. “It’s the twenty-third century, a man and a woman spending time together is hardly newsworthy.”

Spock purses his lips. “You do not think the plan will work,” he realises.

Uhura holds an arm out to him. “Not unless you’re willing to improvise.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I am, regrettably, unpractised at it.”

Uhura pulls him a little closer to the counter. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to pick you up, then,” she says, reaching behind the front desk and retrieving two helmets.

Spock blinks at her, and glances to the motorbike outside. “No,” he says, and takes a careful step back. In the corner, T’Audre glances up, her already-wide eyes framed by winged eyeliner, and Uhura shoots her a tight smile. T’Audre looks away.

“From where did you acquire the motorbike?” Spock asks.

Uhura climbs on top of it, and puts her helmet on. “Garn owed me a favour,” she says, snapping the visor shut.

“Hmm.” Spock doesn’t move. “Are you quite certain it’s sterile?”

Uhura almost rolls her eyes, but she knows he won’t see it. She holds an arm out to him. “It’s the perfect excuse,” she says. “You have to wrap your arms around me to keep from falling off.” She neglects to mention the fact that, if either of them fall off, their clothing is unlikely to protect them. “Scandalous, if any Vulcans see us,” she prompts.

“You forget, they are unlikely to recognise me beneath the helmet,” he counters.

“And you forget, we have a witness.” Uhura nods behind him. He turns slightly, and catches sight of T’Audre, watching them. She quickly turns back to her PADD, and Uhura laughs.

“See?” She tugs Spock onto the bike. “Put your arms around my waist. It’s perfectly safe.”

“I fail to see how a vehicle of this size and specification can be described as ‘safe’. It seems aerodynamically impos-”

She kicks the stilt away and keys the ignition, and Spock grabs her on instinct, in response to the loud whirring sound. She rearranges his hands. “Tighter,” she instructs. “You want news of this relationship to travel a good few light-years away, after all.”

“Perhaps that is too much burden to place on a first date, Nyot-” the latter syllables of her name are lost to a scream, as they barrel down the street. Spock’s grip is suitably tight on her now, and a cackle tears from her lips.

She can feel the thrum of Spock’s heart against her lower back, and wonders just how many of their thoughts can be transmitted through the layers of fabric. Still, she doesn’t need touch-telepathy to feel his terror, and, after the sudden burst of speed, she slows a little.

“I’ve never seen a scared Vulcan before,” she yells. He trembles against her, and carefully shifts his left hand onto the exposed skin on her waist which her crop top doesn’t cover.

‘This is not a common activity on Vulcan,’ he protests.

“That’s true. Congratulations; you’re probably the first Vulcan in history to ride a motorbike,” she yells. She’s not sure how much gets through the wind resistance, and she wonders who could possibly have a reason to beat the record, and her mind settles on Spock’s own father. For a moment, she imagines Amanda and Sarek tearing through the streets like this. Spock shifts uncomfortably behind her, clearly displeased by the mental image. She grins, and spurs the bike forwards.

They speed past the southern entrance to the academy, and she keeps an eye out for pointed ears. Unfortunately, the only person walking past is an Orion woman- an Orion woman Uhura recognises.

“GAILA!” Uhura yells. The red hair against green skin is an unmistakeable combo, and her former-roommate turns.

“Nyota-?” She waves, and Uhura whoops as they tear round the corner. This road runs parallel to The Academy, although there’s still no-one they recognise in sight. Uhura huffs. Normally, on a first date, she couldn’t escape prying eyes if she tried, but now that she’s trying to attract them, she has no luck.

Spock relaxes his grip, wobbles, and scoots closer. He’s clinging to her again. She feels a spike of uninhibited thoughts, and the buzz of his mind is at once familiar and comfortable. She can’t help but tune into the gentle voice.

‘… a distinctly human invention’, he muses. ‘Forcing an intimacy between two individuals, with death or extreme injury as the only alternative-’

He transmits a flare of panic as they veer away from the academy and zoom down a side street. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I’m not going to kidnap you,’ she assures him, and sends soothing thoughts down the temporary bond. ‘I’m just taking you on a little detour. I know, logically, we should probably seek a large congregation of Vulcans, but, like you said, it’s a little too much importance to place on a first date. There’s no reason we can’t have fun.’

Immediately, she feels him relax, although he’s careful to keep his grip appropriately tight this time. Still, he’s curious, and she tries not to think of the location they’re going to too intensely. From what little she knows of mind melds, she’s aware that he can only pick up abstract emotions and pre-verbal thoughts through points on her skin other than her psi-points.

She knows some may consider it cruel to subject a member of such a carefully-controlled race to something as chaotic and loud as a motorbike journey, but she gets the sense- quite literally, through his cool fingers- that this is cathartic for him, in the same way it would be for a human. She smirks to herself. She doubts it’s his half-human DNA making him feel it, though who knows?

She thinks back to what he said about human touch, and closeness, and realises how true that is for them. For the entire false relationship they’re building.

Except, for Spock, it’s not all false. In the next two years, Spock needs to get close to someone, for real, otherwise he’ll die. If he doesn’t find a bondmate-

A wash of calm floods through her, and she sighs.

‘How many people have you held like this in your life?’ She wonders.

‘A sum total of one.’

‘Me?’

‘Correct.’

The bike complains loudly as they begin to go uphill.

‘Thank you for trusting me,’ she thinks. As close as they were before, Spock’s always been hesitant to touch her, and she wonders what it must be like to grow up on a planet so careful about physical touch. Selnar always insists that it’s not strictly a taboo on Vulcan, but she thinks about all intricate little rituals Vulcans have devised in order to allow them to touch each other’s skin. Nerve pinch. Mind meld. Ozh’esta. She’s surprised that, for all the convergent evolution between the two planets, the motorbike did not evolve on Vulcan as it did on Earth. Then again, Vulcans outgrew their irrational, travel-in-fast-cars stage long before they did their toxic masculinity.

Spock continues to cling to her, even as the bike comes to a halt, and she takes her helmet off, laughing. She leans back against him for a moment, and can feel his torso trembling.

The bike wobbles as she turns to stand up, and she feels Spock emit a surge of panic. She climbs off, propping the bike up on its stilt, and pulls him to his feet, firmly. He releases her, and surveys their surroundings. The bike is parked on the edge of the sidewalk, right next to an area of greenspace, which slopes upwards. At the top of the mound are clusters of purple and pink hyacinths, planted half a metre apart.

“Come on,” she says, linking arms with him for the second time today. She guides him down the street, past a baby-blue shopfront with floor-to-ceiling windows. Two mannequins are poised in the window, holding hands, each wearing a wedding dress. Beside it is a grey granite-brick building. A white sign hanging above the entrance, and the café's name is painted in a soft cyan cursive: “Lecker Koppie.”

They step inside. The tops of the walls are painted a soft, pastel green, overlaid by a waist-length wooden skirting board. There are about seven tables clustered into the small space, and tall tables are lined up beside the windows. A cursory glance around the room tells her that there are no Vulcans here, either, and she sighs.

“I guess I miscalculated,” she smiles at Spock.

He looks dazed, and a little windswept. Uhura places her own helmet on the shelf above coat rack, and gently unhooks it from under his arm. He doesn’t resist, and only blinks at her as she guides him towards the back of the room.

A woman is leaning against the counter, and she smiles at them when they walk in. She’s wearing all-white robes, and a large hat which looks almost like a mortar board. She’s dark-skinned, and could be anywhere between twenty to one-hundred and two. If Uhura didn’t know better, she’d have no idea she was an alien.

“Guten tag, Nyota,” Guinan says, with an… interesting attempt at a German accent.

“Guten tag,” Uhura smirks.

Guinan’s eyes dart to Spock. “And hello to you,” she looks him up and down. “I see you’re not here just to give me a language lesson.”

Uhura squeezes Spock’s arm quickly, and lets go of him. “This is my… friend, Spock.”

Guinan tears her eyes away from him. “Ah,” she smiles. “Now, ‘friend’, that makes more sense.”

“What gave it away?” She says.

Guinan gestures to the helmets on the shelf. “He’s still shaking,” she says. “The others never do that.”

Spock looks up. “Others?” He blinks at Guinan three times. “Hello,” he says, belatedly.

Guinan chuckles. “Why don’t you sit down, baby? There’s Vulcan food on the menu.”

“Hmm. I am unsure if I could stomach it,” he murmurs. He navigates his way around the tables with slightly less grace than usual, which, for a Vulcan, is practically staggering.

Guinan leans in conspirationally. “I’m familiar with the human custom of ‘rebounding’, but I never thought I’d see a Vulcan going along with it.”

“This isn’t...” Uhura exhales. “He suggested it, actually.”

“OK. You’ve got me interested. Now, spill.”

Uhura smiles, slyly, and follows Spock to a table near the window.

“Hey, now!” Guinan calls after her. “Don’t make me walk over there-!” She sighs. “Kids. Every damn time.”

Uhura pulls a chair out gently, and sits down across from Spock.

He eyes her, and looks back to Guinan. “You are familiar with the owner.”

Uhura shrugs. “Everyone is. Once she gets people in here, she just… talks.” She smiles. “Plus, the menu has vegan stuff I’ve never even heard of, so I’ve seen a few Vulcans around here.”

“Any in particular?”

“Well...” Uhura smirks. “There’s that teenager who’s always doing homework downstairs… Sonar.” She bites her lip.

Spock straightens. “You are well-aware that ‘Sonar’ is an honoured name in Golic.”

“Oh, I know,” Uhura says. She adopts a serious expression. “It is also an important part of echolocation.”

Spock watches her with a glint in his eye, and waits for her to stop laughing. “So.” He brings his hands to rest, palm-up, on the table. “Why have you not brought me here before?”

“Well, you’ve never asked me on a date before.” She bats her eyelashes.

“Ah.” Spock considers her for a moment. “You reserve this location for romantic interests.”

Uhura thinks of soft brown eyes and blonde hair. “Maybe,” She admits. “But it can be good to make a fresh start with a place.” She glances around. Aside from them, the café is empty, save for two people seated on the table at the other side of the room, and someone in a Starfleet uniform in the corner, quietly dictating an essay into their PADD.

“So.” Guinan approaches them and pulls up a chair. “Tell me everything.”

Spock looks to Uhura, and raises an eyebrow. She laughs.

Once Guinan’s wealth of questions have been satisfied (‘Why not ask a Vulcan woman to do it?’ ‘A man, then?’ ‘Don’t you have some way of suppressing it?’), the sky is entering golden hour. Spock sits with his back to the window, and the light rings his head like a halo. They’re almost the exact reverse of their seating position two days ago in Uhura’s room, when he first asked for her help. For the first time, Uhura begins to contemplate her decision. What exactly is the end game here? Spock’s decision not to tell his mother directly is insane, but she can’t help but admit that she has her own reasons to hope that news of their ‘relationship’ travels among the stars. She sips her hot chocolate in silence, fully aware of the irony of ordering something which has the same effect on Vulcans as alcohol does on humans. It’s a good job I won’t be kissing him later, she thinks, dryly. Spock’s mouth is moving, and she tunes back into the conversation.

“… another round of command-track simulations tomorrow.”

“Another? I thought they could all be done simultaneously with the new program?”

“In theory, yes.” Spock looks at his hands. “But, as this is the first time it’s been used, we are limiting the group sizes. However, this method still saves us days of testing time, and...”

Uhura tilts her head, and her eyes drift to the window. She remembers a very different day in her quarters; Christine silhouetted against the window, a chess board in front of her.

“Roger’s asked me to join his team out on Exo III,” Christine gushes.

Uhura contemplates the board. “Mr Korby?”

Chrissy smiles. “Come on, Ny; you know Roger.”

“I do. As Mr Korby,” Uhura says, coolly.

“He resigned last Tuesday,” Chrissy says. “The Exobiology exams start in four weeks, so he’s clear to leave.”

Uhura takes one of Chrissy’s pieces. “It’s your move,” she says.

“And Roger’s- hmm? Oh.” She moves a pawn two spaces without really looking, and smiles. “Well, Uhura, it’s simply wonderful,” she says. “He’s asked me to be one of his research assistants.”

Uhura tenses. Her fingers twitch, and she manages a small, false smile. “That’s…” Her fingers twitch again. “Great, Christine.” The twitching fingers move her queen up a level. “Check,” she whispers. Christie beams and moves her king one square to the left. “Although...” Uhura inhales.”Why does he need a nurse on his team?” She lines up her rook for a corridor mate.

Christine flushes. “Research assistant, Nyota.” She takes Uhura’s rook with her own, which Uhura promptly takes with her queen.

“But you haven’t graduated theoretical exobiology yet.”

“I know.” Christine sets down a pawn with enough force to make the board shake. “I’m going to sit the exam early. I’m one of his top students-”

“I know you are,” Uhura says. “You could have your pick of any assignment-”

“This is my pick.”

Uhura stares at Christine’s hands. Her long nails are painted a pale blue, though the varnish is chipped. When she graduated nursing last year, she rejoiced in the fact that she’d be able to paint her nails over the summer, only to spend it on placement.

“You haven’t moved,” Christine says into the silence.

“I’m contemplating,” Uhura says. She uses her remaining rook to take the pawn which Christine had erroneously moved earlier. Christine stares at the board for a moment, eyes darting over the pieces.

“You know,” her voice wavers. “It was a long time ago.”

Uhura meets her eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

Christine takes one of her pawns. “Check.”

Uhura takes the knight with one of the pawns. “I’m not doing this to be spiteful-”

“Damnit, Nyota!” The chessboard jumps. “A conduct review would set back his departure time. You promised you wouldn’t report-”

“On the condition that he stayed away from you outside a professional context.”

“This is a professional context.”

“I-”

“-And you said nothing about me staying away from him.”

The beanbag almost gives way beneath her. “Well,” Uhura drops her bishop, and it falls onto the board with a clatter. She hates working with diagonals, but, needs must. “Did you?”

Christine stares at the bishop. “You said it yourself.” Her gaze flits to her own king. “I didn’t need to.” She castles.

Uhura straightens. “Did you want to?”

“You’re jealous,” Christine murmurs.

Uhura takes Christine’s untouched bishop with her queen. “Did you want to?”

Christine moves.

Uhura moves.

“Yes,” Christine breathes.

Uhura’s leg bounces under the table.

Christine moves.

Uhura corners the king. “Checkmate,” she whispers.

“-yota?” Spock touches her sleeve gently, and she starts.

“I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”

“You have done that more frequently since Nurse Chapel left campus six weeks ago.”

She closes her eyes, and groans. She touches her sleeve, reaffirmed by the soft leather. “Did you read my mind?”

“No,” Spock replies. “I… inferred.”

She sits back. “How long have you known?”

“You would often bring up Christine Chapel in conversation, the sudden cessation of which coincided with her leaving Starfleet.”

She stares at the bottom of her cup. “So, six weeks.”

“Five.” There’s an inch of cocoa left. Bitter dregs. “Was it an amiable breakup?” He asks.

Not quite as bad as having your betrothal rejected in front of your gathered family members, she thinks. She shrugs. “I won our game of chess.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

She sighs heavily. “Do you think it’s acceptable for an academy instructor to...” She shakes her head. “Nevermind.” She scoots her chair round the table, and leans her head against his shoulder. “I’m just really glad you’re not a Starfleet instructor,” she says. “Although, if you were, our plan might be going a little better. Still, your coworkers must have noticed I’ve been walking you to every shift in cybernetics this week.”

He purses his lips. “There has been a… minor setback,” he admits. “A more pressing issue has caught their attention.” At the look on Uhura’s face, he raises an eyebrow. “We will simply have to prolong our courtship until it is noticed.”

“Uh-huh,” Uhura asks. “What’s the big news, then?”

“A command-track cadet almost broke the Kobayashi Maru today.”

Uhura falters. That wasn’t quite what she’d expected to hear. “How does someone break a psych exam?” She asks. Privately, she wonders: ‘How fucked up does someone’s subconscious have to be to break the Kobayashi Maru?’

“Who was it?” she asks.

“James T. Kirk.”

“Ah.” She laughs. “That makes a lot of sense. I’m even a little less wounded that the Vulcans have failed to recognise us as the Academy’s new Power Couple.” A thought strikes her. “You know, if Jim Kirk is the Hot Ticket Item on campus right now, you could always fake date him, instead,” Uhura suggests. “It would certainly get you noticed faster.”

“Nyota,” Spock says.

She grins wickedly. “I’m only teasing you.”

“I am aware.”

She leans forwards. “You're blushing.”

He touches his face experimentally, and raises an eyebrow. “Emotion has no influence on Vulcan vasodilation,” he says, stiffly.

“Ha! So you admit-”

“- And I have no feelings in the matter.”

She smirks. “Alright.” She sits back in her chair. “If you won’t pivot to James Kirk-”

“Nyota-”

“- Relax! I have other suggestions. There’s a party in greenhouse three next week. It could be a good opportunity to… Show you off,” she suggests.

Spock hesitates. “I assume Garn will be there?”

“He invited me,” she says, carefully.

“Hmm. Perhaps it will be prudent to keep an eye on him.”

“Oh, come on. He’s not going to try anything with everyone watching him,” Uhura says.

“He does not need to be present while the disruption is taking place.”

“The whole cafeteria thing was an accident.” She frowns. “I think.”

“Nevertheless, whether through incompetence or malice, it occurred.”

“So, that’s a yes, then?” Uhura says.

“… I shall clear my schedule,” Spock says.

She laughs.

Chapter Text

The doorbell chimes twice. Jim opens the door to reveal Sulu standing there, dressed in an all-black mesh that stops above the knee. It's figure hugging, and has a strategically placed band of fabric beneath it so that he's not, technically, naked.

"Nice dress." Jim glances down, which turns out to be a mistake in such close proximity. He catches a glimpse of black stilettos, and, further up- a lot more than he bargained for. He covers his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Hikaru."

"My eyes are up here," Sulu says, helpfully. He steps around Jim and moves into the room.

He locks eyes with him, and grips the doorframe tightly. "What's the occasion?"

"Well, Stamets just ditched me again, so we're going to the biology function." He holds his arm out to Jim. "C'mon! It'll be fun. Biology finals were this morning, and Aimeg's smuggled in some of that Junyvian wine."

Jim hesitates, and glances to the open PADD on the living room table. "I dunno, Sulu, I'm-"

"- Retaking the Kobayashi Maru for the third time tomorrow, yeah, I know," Sulu grins. "Does that mean you owe me twice over?" Jim stares at him, and he laughs. "Did you think you could keep it secret forever? It's the talk of the campus."

Jim opens his mouth, then closes it again. "The bet was that I wouldn't retake, not on how many times." He narrows his eyes. "If I have to take it a fourth, I'm blaming you."

"Uh-huh," Sulu bats his eyelashes at him. He's wearing eyeliner, and a smattering of glitter, applied liberally. "Like I said; you owe me." Once again, he raises his crooked arm. "I'm collecting my debt."

Jim sighs, and slides his arm into his. "You'd think people would find something else to talk about." He takes a step toward the front door, but Sulu pulls him back.

"Not so fast," he veers left, steering him into his bedroom. "You must have something slutty to wear."

"It’s freezing outside."

"It's in one of the greenhouses; it'll be warm. Besides," he unhooks his arm, and heads towards the window at the far corner of the room. "Play our cards right, and we might get to study a little biology ourselves."

Jim rolls his eyes at the terrible innuendo. "Fine, but I'll be shivering all the way there."

"Sometimes you’ve got to suffer for fashion. And, if you show up with me, like that, you'll be overdressed." Jim glances down at his outfit- black jeans, a cream turtleneck cardigan- and pouts.

"What's wrong with my outfit? Computer, mirror." It springs to life in front of the closet, and he poses.

Sulu rolls his eyes, and opens the bottom drawer of the dresser. "Jesus, James, are these all jumpers?"

"It's the only way to stop Bones fussing over me like a mother hen."

"Has he not heard of central heating?" He gestures to the walls around them. "And I know you've got it. Fricking medical staff, man."

Jim smiles ruefully, and slides the bottom drawer shut. He's not sure he wants Sulu to study his Ugly Christmas Sweater collection just yet. Fortunately, Sulu's turned his attention to a different drawer, and he rifles through a few pairs of jeans quickly.

Sulu whistles. "I'm still convinced Stamets only moved in with Culber for the extra storage space." As he talks, he makes a thorough mess of the drawers. "Their place wasn't as roomy as this, though."

"Well, Bones was already qualified when he enlisted with Starfleet, so-"

Sulu throws a pair of shorts at him. "Put these on; I'll try and find a suitable top."

"And if you can't?" Jim challenges, and unzips his pants.

Sulu eyes him mischievously, and says nothing.

"Hell no. I'm not going to a party half-naked," Jim grumbles. "That's what leaving it's for."

"Should've thought about that before you decided to retake the Kobayashi Maru."

Jim glares at him, and pulls on the shorts. They're reddish-pink, and barely cover anything, but the frilly hemline gives an implication of modesty.

"Cute," Sulu comments. "Were they Janice's?"

Jim shakes his head, and pulls the pale cardigan over his head as he goes. "No, they're mine.” He contemplates for a moment. “Janice wouldn't approve of something so feminine on me," he says, with a scowl. He steps around Sulu to the wardrobe. "So, let's find something that'd really annoy her,” he says, forcing unnatural cheer into his voice.

Sulu slaps him on the shoulder. "Now you're getting it." He crosses his arms, and leans into the closet slightly as Jim pulls out a v-necked yellow shirt.

"Why?" Jim asks, as he pulls his undershirt off. "Is she gonna be there?" He tries, and fails, to sound unbothered, and Sulu gives him a sympathetic smirk.

"No, but Ben might be."

"Ah," Jim slips the shirt on, as understanding dawns. "You're making him jealous." He tucks the shirt in and studies the effect in the mirror. "He won't buy it. He knows you don't go for skinny blondes."

"It'll work," Sulu says, as his eyes flit to his shorts. "You're not that skinny.”

*

As they make their way across campus, they can hear faint strains of music, which gain in intensity as they approach the dome. Arm-in-arm, James can feel the gooseflesh on Hikaru’s skin, although the man outright refuses to shiver.

When they arrive at Greenhouse Three, the party is already in full swing. The building has a central dome area which leads off to two L-shaped wings at the back. The grounds around it flash blue, red and yellow in time with the colourful strobe-lights. For a split second, the dome lights up a brilliant pink, and Jim shudders. Sulu frowns at him, and he disguises it as a shiver.

Sulu tugs the double-doors open, and the two of them step inside.

"I give it forty minutes before its shut down,” Jim shouts over the music. A dark-haired Orion woman runs past, closely followed by three laughing cadets, all of whom appear to be Terran. From what he can see of their retreating backsides, most of them appear to be wearing even less than Sulu.

"Come on. We're not that late to the party," Sulu huffs.

“Well, if you hadn’t spent so long dressing me, you wouldn’t have missed the fun,” Jim teases.

“If I let you dress as you wanted to, you wouldn’t get to have any fun at all,” Sulu nudges him.

Jim’s eyes are still on the retreating party. Sulu gives him a look; intelligent eyes sharp and calculating. "I'll wager three hours, at least, before Professor Almiratov shuts this place down."

Jim looks thoughtful. "We’ll only last that long if you can convince them to turn the volume down," he nods over Sulu's shoulder to an alien DJ. "We already know it can be heard across campus."

Sulu rolls his eyes. "Done." He pulls Jim along by the arm as he approaches the soundblaster beside the flowerbeds. The DJ is an Aclaxian: a lizard-like, six-legged species, rumoured to have two mouths. (Which is difficult to confirm, as they don't like to discuss the location.)

Sulu is undaunted. "I must say, James, you seem awfully eager to lose bets to me recently."

Jim gestures to their surroundings. "I thought you liked having me in your debt?"

"Oh, I'm not complaining." Sulu flashes him a smile, then turns to the Aclaxian. "Hey," he says, as he lowers his voice in an attempt to seem charming. Not an easy feat, considering Aclaxians rarely go for humanoids. The Aclaxian blinks at him as he cups his hands over his mouth. "Could you turn it down? My ear drums aren't as... discerning as yours."

James detaches himself from Sulu, and pats him on the shoulder lightly. He leaves him to barter with the DJ alone, and makes his way over to one of the observation areas, where the Orion woman and crew appear to be playing hide and seek. At least- he turns away with a flush- he sure hopes it's hide and seek, otherwise not even Sulu can prolong the life of this party.

Still, James brightens, at least he's likely to win their impromptu ‘bet’. It's hard to imagine what Sulu will demand from him if he wins. Behind him, a sudden loud blast of Hingularian dubstep tells him he's in no danger of losing, and he allows himself a small smile. Emboldened, but no less deafened, he continues to move further away from the soundblaster, towards all the other lifeforms with sensitive hearing. Most of the humanoids (at least, those who aren’t currently playing half-naked hide-and-seek) are clustered together at the far end of the dome. Among them, standing alone and looking very out-of-place, is a young Vulcan woman. Jim hesitates for a moment, then approaches. She’s somewhat petite and wears pretty yellow robes which reach the ground. It's a good thing that the soil which usually covers the floor has been swept away.

Her robes are long-sleeved, and lined with red patterns at the cuffs and neckline. Jim feels a fleeting pang of sympathy, for the robes must feel too-warm in the carefully controlled environment of the greenhouse. Although, when he remembers the cold walk back to the dorms, he can see the... logic of them.

"Hello," he says, loudly, and she flinches.

"... Greetings," she says, guardedly, as she regards him with narrowed eyes. He realises he was probably talking louder than necessary, given her Vulcan hearing, and smiles sheepishly.

"Sorry," he points to his own ears. "Loud music."

"Indeed." Her expression doesn't change. She has dark skin, and her hair is cropped short, in the traditional Vulcan style.

"I'm James," he says, quieter this time.

"Yes, I am aware," she says. "I am T'Nara." Her eyes dart somewhere behind him, and he turns his head slightly. He catches sight of Uhura behind him, and frowns.

"Looking for someone?"

She straightens. "Spock."

James laughs. "I don't think this is quite his scene."

She looks him up and down. Her expression couldn’t quite be called disdain, but her eyes hold something close to it. "Perhaps not. Nevertheless, he is here." Her eyes are still somewhere in the middle distance, and, once again, James follows her gaze, and sees nothing.

"Okay," he shifts uncomfortably. “How did you know me?”

“You have twice submitted an application to re-do your command-track simulation, the approval of which I oversee.”

“Oh.” He deflates slightly. “Thank you.”

Her eyebrow twitches. “No thanks are necessary. This is a rare opportunity to study the full effect of the simulation.”

Before he can ask what she means by that, there’s a sudden drop in the music’s volume, followed by angry, alien shouting. Jim turns, as a stunned Sulu backs away from the platform, hands raised placatingly. The Axclaxian is wearing a Universal Translator, but Jim can’t hear the translations it's spitting out- although, apparently, Sulu can. He appears to be mid-apology. Jim turns back to T’Nara with a pained smile.

“Excuse me.”

She inclines her head, and he runs to Sulu’s aid.

“¡Sutto, sutto numeeiso, retulloso, litmo, grim-lim flimmet!” The DJ shouts.

“- perhaps your large ears have no appreciation for proto-nebulous-ultra-heavy-death-metal-” the translator spits out, helpfully.

“Varna varna gee'ipritch helemuso eetan o farniso.”

“But it was requested by seventeen people at this party.”

“Enfaz, enfaz, wull'how sen lim motlich!”

“I will not stand for the implication I have baby ears, baby ears!”

“He wasn’t insulting your music selection,” Jim says. “Or your ears. The volume is just-”

“¿Babeliphon? Lim so enso?”

“Can’t hear properly? With those ears?”

“Um. Hey! There’s no need to get-”

A hand on his shoulder. He turns. Uhura gives him a look, and he steps aside gratefully.

“Farnis, burrnis, babeliphon lotyo,” she steps forwards. “Mut-rit lon litmit vangreeoso lotimnh'o.”

It appears the DJ interpreted Sulu turning his music down as an act of aggression. He’s easily placated once they allow him to put his music on full-blast again, although Sulu looks downcast. It’s still a little loud for his taste, but he fakes a triumphant smile, and steps down from the platform with Uhura. A small crowd is watching them, and Jim’s face falls as he hurries away from the noise and chatter.

Footsteps behind him.

“Hey- you OK?” Sulu touches his arm. Jim places his own hand to it with the lightest smile.

“I just need to get somewhere quieter.”

Concern flashes in his eyes.

“I’m fine. Really.” Jim squeezes his hand once before walking away.

Somehow, he finds himself in the east wing of the greenhouse, the only part of the party which isn't sealed off or otherwise filled with people. The air is a little cooler in here, and he crosses his arms over his chest instinctively. Although three layers of glass now separate him from the soundblaster, he can still hear the faint strains of proto-nebulous-ultra-heavy-death-metal. He fixes his eyes on a window. The edge of the pane quivers slightly, and he catches a flash of bright-red skin. He averts his eyes. Apparently, the seventeen-person orgy has moved into the exotic plants section next door. He hopes there's no-one hiding in these flower beds, but the soil looks largely undisturbed.

The din from the soundblaster eases off a little as some of the party-goers venture outside, and Jim relaxes, until he hears the explosion.

BANG!

He jumps, heart kicking into overdrive.

It’s definitely coming from outside, and- his breathing catches- above him. He turns his eyes heavenwards as the starry canvas above him erupts into a thousand, shimmering points of silver and red.

He exhales. Fireworks. They're fireworks.

He tries to relax, but his heart won't stop racing, and the spray nozzles at the side of his vision suddenly begin to look a lot like dispersers. He inhales steadily. 'You're safe. You're safe-'

Another flurry of explosions. Bursts of light illuminate the edges of the greenhouse, burning the outlines of strange planets into his retinas, and suddenly, he can't quite breathe anymore. The sky is burning an impossible, familiar pink, and his eyes flutter closed.

I’ m not a scared child. And I'm not there. I am not-

"You appear to be somewhat distressed,” says a low voice. Somehow, it carries through all the chaos and noise, and Jim straightens up. His chest rises and falls quicker than he'd like, but he resists the urge to claw his hands across his ears. "I'm fine," he lies, turning slightly to the voice as a bright, burning yellow lights up the underside of his eyelids. He staggers for a moment, moving towards the voice. He allows himself to look properly at the figure for the first time, and realises, with a start, that he knows him.

"Hey… Spock, right?" he tries to keep his voice light. The Vulcan tilts his head, and watches him with an unsettling steadiness. Jim looks away. "Just exam stress, I guess." He manages a weak smile, but his hands start to tremble, so he hides them behind his back.

Spock's face morphs from concern to understanding. "Ah. You are retaking the Kobayashi Maru tomorrow," he states. It's not a question.

James frowns. "How did you-?"

"It is a point of interest around campus."

Jim's frown turns into a more genuine smile. "You mean... gossip?"

Spock blinks. "If you like. Though I like to think I would never participate in something so... crude."

Jim exhales with enough force that it could be considered a laugh. "Vulcans are too logical for that, you mean." He can feel his heartbeat receding from his ears, the thrum of his pulse becoming slower as he focuses on the conversation and allows it to ground him in this moment. Still, the volume of the explosions remain as loud as before.

"On the contrary. To Vulcans, the fast exchange of information is integral to all decision-making. However, experience tells me Terrans view this as a hostile act."

Another volley of fireworks. Jim winces, and tries to pass it off as a smirk.

Spock stares at him, and Jim watches the subtle tilt of his eyelashes. When did he get so close? His breath hitches a little, and he's filled with the irrational, panicked urge to take a step back. He tells himself it's only because his brain's in overdrive; the Vulcan's still standing at arm's length. At arm's reach.

His eyes dart around. He tries to ignore the volley of fireworks, and sits on the edge of the flowerbed heavily.

His eyes focus on a cluster of glowing plants. Solhestias. In daylight, grey as they are, they resemble a colour-washed Earth poppy, but by night, the stems and veins light up green, out-shining the grey flowers. They pulsate, like long spikes of aloe vera. The moon they evolved on, Solhest III, can’t support much life, yet, somehow, these grew from the barren soil.

Hesitantly, Spock sits beside him. "Why are you intent on re-doing the simulation?"

Ah. Of course. This is all about the simulation. Jim catches his breath, and considers, for one blinding, irrational moment, telling him the truth. Instead, he shrugs. "Because I can."

Spock's watching him again, not saying anything, with that hard, appraising intensity.

Jim looks away. "The option is there," he clarifies.

Spock studies him carefully. "Indeed. But the effects of taking it multiple times remain largely untested." He hesitates, and observes the way Jim struggles to draw breath. “James,” he says, sternly. “Is it normal for you to get worked up over an exam to this extent?”

The exam’s not the issue, Jim thinks, but he only shakes his head.

“I am involved with the team who programmed the Kobayashi Maru,” Spock admits. Jim stares at him for a moment, calculating.

“And… There are other Vulcans on your team?”

Spock tilts his head.

“T’Nara,” Jim clarifies.

“Ah,” says Spock. “You have met.”

Jim laughs. “Yeah.” He looks down at his feet. “When she said you were here tonight, I was surprised.” He looks up. “I didn’t think you were the wild party type.”

“Perhaps not. But a friend of… cadet Uhura's is here, so she invited me along.”

Jim tilts his head. “And a friend of yours?”

“No,” Spock says, flatly.

Jim laughs. A volley of fireworks go off overhead. The sound fizzles out, and he shivers.

“You are underdressed for the environment,” Spock observes.

Jim twists his fingers together. “That might be the most tactful way anyone’s ever called me a slut.”

“That was not what I meant to imply,” Spock says, as he removes his jacket. He offers it to Jim wordlessly, who shakes his head. “Take it,” Spock prompts.

“But then you’ll be cold.”

“Earth is always cold,” Spock says.

“Then-”

“You are trembling,” Spock points out. “And I remain unaffected.” He holds his hands steady to demonstrate, and raises an eyebrow. Cursing, Jim realises he’s been tricked. He can either admit that he’s having a panic attack, or pretend he’s just cold, swallow his pride, and accept the damn jacket.

“I...” He takes the jacket. “Thanks.”

A firework shatters overhead, and Jim closes his eyes. Atoms, peeling away into nothing. The stench of ozone, acrid in his mouth. He hugs his knees, resisting the urge to curl in on himself, and a steadying hand stops him.

The jacket smells like him, something warm, and comforting, and distant, which he can’t quite place. He inhales deeply, and, a few minutes later, the shivering subsides.

“You were cold,” Spock observes.

“Apparently,” Jim says, although he’s not so sure he agrees. He rises, and, almost in a trance, moves to the other side of the greenhouse, coming to rest beside a flower bed, glowing faintly blue.

“Look familiar?” He asks.

Spock gives a quick nod. "Parvellaforms."

Jim smiles. "I almost didn't recognise them dormant. They should be out there, having fun, terrorising the cadets.”

Spock shoots him a look, but seems to catch the humor on his face. "Given the incident, it seems unwise to allow them to remain here."

"They need them for gene-splicing experiments," Jim explains. "Nothing else grows that fast."

Spock stares at them with a quiet contemplation. "I am familiar with some aspects of the xenobiologists' work," he says. "I still hold that it's unwise to allow so many cadets free access to them."

"And why's that?"

A single line of light illuminates Spock’s face. "I believe, as you told me two years ago, that it is 'prank season.'"

Jim breaks into a wide smile. "Yeah, well, that may be true, but no one would use the same trick twice. Everyone's on the lookout for huge, fuckoff vines at the moment. It's got to be something unexpected to be effective. Something small."

Spock tilts his head. "What would you use, given the chance?"

"Why? Are you trying to prank someone?"

"On the contrary. If I can anticipate the next round of chaos, I can take steps to prevent it.”

Jim smiles. “That sounds… Logical.” He considers the question as they begin walking again. “I suppose I’d go an entirely different route. Everyone’s on the lookout for plant life, so maybe something mechanical? Like a computer glitch, or a furry animal Though, if they really wanted to cause chaos, they’d probably plant it in advance, covertly.” He squints at Spock. “This is all hypothetical, of course.”

“Of course,” Spock says, amused.

They emerge into the central biome area. Jim unzips the jacket the moment that he spots Uhura.

“Here,” he slips it off, and hands it back to Spock. “It’s much warmer in here,” he covers, at his quizzical glance. Spock nods, and drapes the jacket over his arm.

Even with Spock at his side, moving through the crowd is disorienting, and he’s keenly aware of every explosion overhead. They come less frequently now, but his fists clench with every sound. They’re just a bit of fun, he tells himself.

Now that he’s hyper-aware of Spock, he keeps catching hints of his scent on the air, in between too-fragrant plants, and clouds of overly-perfumed cadets. The chatter of the people around them is suddenly louder: if it was too loud before, it’s deafening now.

“There you are!” Uhura beams at Spock, then gives Jim a curious look. “James Kirk.”

“Uhura. Thank you for diffusing… That, earlier,” Jim says, with a nod towards the soundblaster, which is now blaring ‘Don’t Just Wanna See You Dance’ by The Seven Sirens of Sitris. Jim spots Sulu dancing near Ben over by the entrance, and suddenly feels rooted to the spot. There’s no chance of getting Sulu out of here for a long time.

“It’s fine,” Uhura says, startling him. She makes conversation with Spock for a moment, which Jim doesn’t really listen to, until the Vulcan turns back to him.

"I shall retire for the night. As should you, cadet," he says, as he inclines his head to Jim. If he was thinking clearly, this would be the perfect opportunity to leave the party- but then, Spock kisses Uhura on the cheek, and his thoughts become scrambled once more.

He walks away with long strides.

Uhura gazes after him with a look Jim can't quite decipher. There's fondness there, and- perhaps- a little amusement. She turns to Jim with the slightest smirk, and raises an eyebrow- perhaps an expression she picked up from Spock.

“So. I'm surprised you chose me as your communications officer on The Kobayashi Maru.”

“Oh,” Jim says, suddenly more nervous than he's been all evening. “You know about that?”

She shrugs, and sips her drink, which is bright pink, and bubbling slightly.

“Well… I was told you’re the best,” he says.

She beams at that, and touches his arm. “I'm messing with you. You can't choose what your subconscious does with these things.”

“… Yeah,” he says, with a forced smile. He tries to ignore the volley of fireworks overhead, and focuses on Uhura. He has no idea if this is how normal peoples’ dreams usually work. Probably a side effect of lucid dreaming the rest of the time. He opens his mouth to say as much, then closes it again. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like the type of thing the girlfriend of one of the programmers should know. "Huh. I did wonder why Bones was always my helmsman."

"Bones?"

"My roommate, Leonard McCoy. He's a Doctor."

"Oh.”

The conversation lapses for a moment, as Uhura studies him with all-too-knowing eyes. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“You think I need it?”

She shrugs again.

“You know something I don’t know?” He says, with an uneasy laugh, and she gives him a mysterious smile.

He glances over. Sulu is standing a short distance away from Ben, and Jim approaches them while he has the chance. His knees tremble so much he doesn’t know how he’ll get there, but, somehow, he finds himself at Sulu’s side.

“We need to go,” James says, as he tugs on Sulu’s shoulder.

Sulu turns. “Why?” He grins. “You’ve already lost our bet-” Sulu stops when he sees Jim’s face. He doesn’t even argue, he just grabs his arm and steers him towards the door.

Jim is shivering by the time they get back to the apartment, although it isn’t just from the cold. Sulu inputs the door code and bundles Jim inside.

“I’ll call Leonard,” he says.

"No," he says, "The retake. Bones will call it off if he sees me like this. ‘Emotionally Compromised’.” He sniffs, and wipes his eyes.

"Is that such a bad thing?" Sulu asks, as he settles on the mattress beside him. “You’ve been worried about it all night.” He strokes his hair. "What have you got to prove?"

Jim exhales, and buries his face in the pillow. "Nothing.” Everything. "I just… Have to."

Sulu pulls him closer, and says nothing for a while, as they curl up together in silence.

"Do you want me to stay here tonight?" He murmurs.

Jim looks up. It's 03:00, only seven hours 'til the resit, and he attempts a nonchalant shrug. “Only if you don't mind getting woken up at 9."

"I've got that physics thing anyway," Sulu says, and attempts to reposition himself on the bed. He curses as his dress rides up slightly. "Let me borrow some pyjamas," he says.

Jim laughs weakly, and goes to fetch some. "Come on, Hickey, I thought you wanted to make Ben jealous?"

He dodges the pillow Sulu throws at him, and they get changed quietly, then curl back up against each other, quietly.

He’s not certain about many people’s attitude to him, but, when it comes to Sulu, he knows where he stands. He knows Sulu loves him. He was almost worried he was in love with him at first, for this is so different to the way Bones loves him. Unconditional, yes, but not quite the way you’d love a brother. If Bones loves him as you’d love a brother, then Sulu is something inbetween a lover and a friend.

Sometimes he figures they’re the only two people on campus who care enough about each other not to sleep with each other. Well, there’s Bones, he supposes- although, whenever he thinks back to the other morning, he’s not so certain that they didn’t sleep together after all. Since then, Bones has been busy overseeing the various command-track simulations, and Jim hasn’t seen him much beside that, but he could swear there’s been a certain stiffness to their interactions since, as if Bones is ashamed to be around him.

Soft lips brush ever so slightly against the back of his neck, and some of the tension leaves his body. The first night he and Sulu had spent like this, curled up, each clinging to the other, he’d had to fight down his body’s overeager response to those lips. For one, there was Janice.

“I promised I’d try the whole monogamy thing,” Jim says, breathlessly, as they swiftly redress each other, and prepare never to talk about it again.

Now, Jim knows they’re both available and willing, and they’d both say yes, if only the other should ask. But that’s just it. He needs Sulu too much to risk him on some half-thought-out scheme, or one-night stand. And it would be a one-night stand, he knows that as plainly as he knows that life needs gravity to exist. It’s possible to float away for a while, live in space, but everyone needs a stable centre to their life, a rock to centre around.

He tells himself it’s enough. For one, his strange, post-relationship period isn’t over. But Jim Kirk needs love like… Well, like gravity. The more he looks at Sulu, the more he’s convinced that the man is a celestial body, roaming through the universe as he pleases, because even within Universal constants, there’s always some rock which can’t quite be held down. Perhaps Sulu is just the nearest asteroid he can freeze his butt off on.

Jim Kirk needs love like a moth needs a flame, but, every time he gets close to that flame, he thinks, what if?

It would hurt, of course, and it wouldn’t last long, but could it be worth it?

Jim sighs. He doubts he’ll ever care for someone so little that he’s willing to put them through that. In his experience, mixing sex and feelings is… Messy. Much better to get his fix elsewhere. Truth be told, he’s not even sure it is a fix; he feels as if he’s searching, desperately, for something. Buried treasure, hidden in the depths of other people. Whatever it was, he knows he gave his to Janice, and there’s still a barely-filled-in hole where it used to be. He wouldn’t go so far as to say Janice refused to give hers in return. Perhaps she was just incapable of it. Perhaps people are like jigsaw pieces, made to fill the gaps in each other, but he can’t help thinking that he was whole before he met Janice, and something precious has since been lost, which he can’t get back.

Stern hands pull him closer. “ Go to sleep.”

It’s a different kind of loyalty. A closeness akin to the brinkmanship enjoyed by both sides of The Cold War. They would destroy each other if only one of them gave the word.

Firm hands tangle into the base of his hair.

“I mean it. Stop thinking.” Sulu whispers in his ear.

Jim settles against his body. He remembers early nights spent drinking with Gary Mitchell; moments where he’d stare right through you. Strange flashes of insight.

He hums. “Sure you’re not a telepath?”

“Maybe you just think loud.”

Jim gives a small sniff of laughter. “I love you,” he mumbles, without really thinking.

Sulu grunts, half-asleep, or pretending to be, and only pulls him closer.

Chapter Text

It all feels strangely familiar this time.

“We're receiving a distress signal from the USS Kobayashi Maru,” Uhura says.

As usual, they enter the neutral zone.

“Two Klingon vessels have entered the neutral zone and are locking weapons on us,” says Sulu, and that makes a lot more sense- Sulu as helmsman, not Bones. Still, as with the first two times, Bones is on the bridge in some capacity, and Jim tries to remember in what capacity he serves.

Before he can ask why the doctor is on the bridge, The Kobayashi Maru is on fire, escape pods jettisoning, as the Klingon ship prepares to fire on them.

You have never experienced this before, his mind insists. And yet-

“They’ll never make it,” Bones grits, and Jim can’t help but agree. There is another ship, though, one whose history he remembers well. Well, he doesn’t actually remember it, although, technically, he was there at the time, albeit as a baby. There is one, certain chance to end all this. He steels himself.

“Everyone, evacuate the bridge,” he says.

“What?” Bones asks, unmoving. Jim looks past him, to the helm.

“Mr Sulu, once you’ve cleared the bridge, I want you to separate the saucer section.”

Bones grabs his arm. “Jim.”

The Klingon ship begins firing on the escape pods, and Jim prises Bones’ fingers off.

“Go.” He pushes him away. Sulu takes him by the arm and pulls him towards the turbo lift. He looks back, once, and Jim meets his eye. Sulu tilts his head just a fraction, a silent question, and Jim sets his jaw. A nod. He need only give the order, and Sulu will let him destroy himself. They have a pact, after all.

His grip tightens on the arms of the command chair. The hull of the Klingon vessel gets steadily closer, and, as he hoped, immediately stops firing on The Kobayashi Maru. It attempts to make and about-turn. As his ship crashes into the Klingon’s, and the viewscreen fills with fire, and light. This was the last thing dad saw, he thinks, as his heartrate skyrockets, and an explosion blows out the command console.

*

I don’t want to have this dream anymore.

For perhaps the first time in his life, it doesn’t work. Jim’s breath comes fast, his chest tight. He tries to move his legs, but it’s like running through a river. Submerged in water.

The domes of Tarsus are a tourist attraction. Large enough to fit a thousand people in, easily. As big as a field. A remarkable feat of human engineering. He’s seen all the posters. “See the triple domes of Tarsus. Bathe in the light of the second sunset. Try our homegrown food and wine!”

“James.”

James was never supposed to be here. Sam is at Starbase Six, studying for finals with his girlfriend, Aurelan. James was en-route to meet him, with his mother, when she got the callout to Epsilon II-

“Cadet Kirk.”

“It’ll only be for three months,” Winona assures him. “It shouldn’t take long to find out the root cause of the crop extinction on Epsilon. Plus, it’s a holiday resort! You’ll love it here.”

The sunset doesn’t look so pretty now.

Kodos holds out an arm. “Stop.” He looks down. “I know this boy.”

James tries to pull away.

“He was staying in the embassy, but he’s not an Epsilon,” Kodos says. “There’s no reason he should be held to account.”

Red, red, red. The skies flash red, ignite, burn. When the dust settles again, all is as it was before. Empty. Terribly empty-

“Jim.”

He gasps.

His eyes flutter open. He’s curled on a sofa, and there’s something soft resting on top of him. A blanket. A hand on his forehead.

“Thank God,” says a familiar voice.

The Kobayashi Maru-

The hand pulls away, and Jim shivers. “Bones?” A figure stands behind the headrest, and pulls the blanket tighter around him.

I died, Jim thinks. I’m certain of it. His eyes focus, enough to see an angry southern doctor, looming above him.

“Damnit, Jim!”

The shivering lessens, and Jim blinks up at him.

“It was not his fault, Doctor,” says a soft voice, to the left.

“You’re goddamn right it’s not. You programmed it.”

Jim turns his head. Kneeling beside him… Cropped black hair, and a pair of pointed ears. “You…” He says. He smiles, sleepily, and glances at Spock’s outstretched hand. Touch telepathy. “Did you-?” He sits up quickly. “How much did you see?”

Spock purses his lips. “It was not my intention to intrude.” He stands.

Jim closes his eyes. “Everything, huh?”

There’s a pause, and Jim opens his eyes again. Bones leans over the back of the sofa, running a tricorder over Jim and muttering. “Damned Vulcans almost killed you.”

“Really? I thought it was Klingons.” He laughs, weakly.

“It’s not funny, Jim! You wouldn’t wake up!”

“But I did-” He tries to sit up, and clutches his head. “Ow.” His pulse throbs in his neck, and he places his palm over the offending vein. He breathes deeply. After a moment, his heartrate steadies, and he attempts a dry smile. “Did I at least beat it this time?”

The hum of the tricorder stops. “Don’t get any funny ideas. You’re not taking it again.”

“Indeed, doctor,” Spock says. “Given today’s events, I will be recommending that the simulation is discontinued.”

Jim places his hands in his lap. “Oh man. I overshot. I killed the Kobayashi Maru.”

“The test was not intended to be repeated,” Spock says. “The neural dampeners necessary to dull your awareness had to work harder in order to-"

The door chimes. Spock freezes.

“Doctor,” Spock says, “An interrogation is likely to destabilise cadet Kirk at present.”

“Interrogation?” Jim yelps.

“He’s being overdramatic,” Bones says. “The Vulcans just want to know how you did it.”

“Um. OK. Did what?”

The door chimes again.

“The test was designed to be a no-win scenario.” Spock places his hands behind his back. “However, whilst dreaming, you changed the conditions of the test.”

“They think you cheated,” Bones supplies.

“What?! But I didn’t even know I was doing it!”

“You think they care about that? No offence,” he murmurs to Spock.

Spock raises an eyebrow. “None taken, doctor. I know you are incapable of appreciating the Vulcan need for thoroughness.”

“I appreciate it just fine when you’re not trying to dissect my patients!”

“Dissect?” Jim glares at Bones. “I thought you said he was exaggerating!”

“No, I said he was being dramatic. I never said-”

The door chime repeats, followed by a polite but determined knock. Spock raises an eyebrow at Bones, who huffs, and walks over to the control panel. Once there, he presses the intercom button. “Who is it?” He asks.

“T’Nara of Vulcan. Open this door, Doctor.”

Bones looks at Spock. Slowly, the Vulcan shakes his head.

“Not until I’ve treated my patient,” he says, and releases the button.

“Thank you, Doctor. It would be best to-”

“- Now, just wait a moment. I meant what I said.” Bones moves over to Jim again, and gives the tricorder another quick blast. His vital signs must satisfy him, because he throws his arms in the air. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll hold off the inquisition,” he grunts. “Take him somewhere calm.”

The knocking starts again, and Bones scowls. “Get him out of here,” He says. He looks at Jim. “I’ll comm you when the coast is clear.”

He barely has time to nod. In the far corner of the room is a second door, and Spock makes his way over to it. Outside, T’Nara’s voice is joined by others, and Spock locks eyes with him.

“Come,” he holds the door open.

Disoriented, Jim scrambles to his feet, and the blanket slides to the floor. His heartrate is still elevated from the nightmare, and Spock's face is unreadable. The door slams shut behind them, and they hurry to the end of the corridor. There’s a tall window here, but it doesn’t let much light in. A tree outside obscures most of the light, but, Jim reasons, it also hides them from view. He follows Spock upwards, and wonders where this paranoia has sprung from.

Not on Tarsus, he thinks. You’re safe. The panic doesn’t fade. T’Nara can’t do anything worse to you than Kodos did, he reasons, as a shudder runs through him.

“Where are you taking me?” He asks, as they climb the maintenance stairs. His voice is flat. He clings to the railing, registers the roughness of the metal under his skin, but doesn’t really feel it. If he concentrates, he’s just about able to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Spock slows, and takes him by the arm. Firm, but gentle.

“To cadet Uhura’s living quarters,” Spock says, as if taking a shell-shocked person to your girlfriend’s house is normal.

Jim frowns, but doesn’t resist much beyond that.

“T’Nara is likely to search for you at your quarters. There is a bridge that connects Uhura’s building to this one, which will allow us to travel there undetected.”

“I can see that,” Jim wheezes, as they reach the top. They’re too high up to be seen through the windows, but he keeps away from them regardless. “Didn’t T’Nara… See you leave the exam hall with me?” He frowns.

“There is a 97% chance she did not. She was checking the computer readout when we departed.”

“And… If she did?”

Spock’s eyes narrow. “I will conceal you.”

The corridors here are thin, and an overhead light flickers on as they begin to move down it. The only natural light comes from a tall window at the end. Three doors down, Spock stops. He keys in the code, and the door swings open. They step inside.

Jim blinks. The room is bathed orange, not just by the brightly-coloured furniture, but the Venetian blinds in front of the window have been left open. A desk sits in front of it, the chair facing away from the window. To the left is another door, presumably the bathroom. Uhura’s bed is about a foot away, adorned by a patterned duvet, perfectly nestled in an alcove. There’s a floor-to-ceiling window, capped by a sloping ceiling.

There’s a series of beeps behind him as Spock inputs a code into the replicator set into the wall.

The room has a view over the back of the labs, and the west wing of greenhouse one. He stares at the figures inside for a moment, trying to see if he can spot Sulu. He can’t quite shake the floaty, disconnected feeling, but he knows it’s not entirely the simulation’s fault. This didn’t happen the previous two times he completed it. He was disoriented, sure, but he’d never started disassociating. He blinks furiously.

There’s a beanbag at the head of the bed, and he sits on it heavily. He stares into the space in front of him, and wills the feeling to go away. After a moment, Spock hands him a glass of water, and he attempts a smile.

“You know, when he said to take me somewhere calm, I don’t think Bones meant ‘take him up four flights of stairs’.”

“Perhaps not. But I have a more restful activity in mind.” He moves across to the dresser, directly beside the replicator, and opens the top of the glass case. He removes a purple hairball from within, and hands it to Jim.

“Chirp,” says the fluff.

He almost drops it in surprise. “A tribble?”

He places it in his lap, and it wriggles a little.

Ignoring the chair, Spock sits cross-legged on the floor in front of him, and Jim is too dazed by the whole situation to question the illogic of it.

“I’ve read about these.” Jim squints at it, and breaks into a smile. “It would seem you’re harbouring two fugitives,” he says.

Spock tilts his head. “Why?”

“These are on the academy’s banned pets list,” Jim says.

Spock narrows his eyes. “Garn.”

Jim laughs. For a moment, he thought the Vulcan had said ‘darn’.

“Gareth Narn?”

Spock nods. “He is an… associate of Uhura’s. This tribble is a result of his experimentation.”

“Ah,” Jim grins. “And the purpose?”

“To produce an infertile tribble.”

“Hmm.” Jim weighs it in his hand. It’s a little wider than his palm, and heavier than he’d expected it to be. “Could be,” he says. “How long has she had it for?”

“Five days.”

“And this is the only one?” He laughs. “Normally, you’d be drowning in them by now.”

Spock considers. “Perhaps cadet Narn is more capable than he would appear.”

“- Well, the cafeteria infestation wasn’t the best first impression.”

Spock watches him. “Perhaps not. Although I did not get such a lasting impression from… Others.” His gaze softens.

Jim bites back a smile, and watches the tribble. “Was Garn the friend of Uhura’s you wanted to keep an eye on last night?”

Spock straightens. “Yes. Although I did not see him at the party.”

“Oh, he was there,” Jim grimaces, remembering the bushes. “Be glad you missed him.”

“Fascinating.”

The tribble coos, and the tension in Jim’s shoulders melts away. He exhales. “What’s his name?”

“Nyoto,” Spock says, with a strange expression. If the man wasn’t a Vulcan, Jim would almost believe he was  withholding a smirk.

Jim runs his fingers through the soft fur, and smiles at the vibrations it produces. “OK,” he admits. “I can see why you brought me here. Their cries have a calming effect on humanoids.”

“Humans,” Spock says.

“Ah,” Jim looks up with a raised brow. “I suppose... You are immune to its effects?”

“Yes.”

Jim passes Nyoto back to him. “Prove it.”

Spock purses his lips. He looks down at the tribble, then back up to James. “I must warn you, any attempts to illicit an emotional response will be futile.”

“Hmm.” Jim slumps back against the wall. “Lack of reaction doesn’t mean there’s a lack of response.” He sinks into the beanbag until they’re eye-height, and Spock meets his gaze levelly.

“Perhaps. But how would you measure it?”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Negative.”

“Is this stubbornness part of the Vulcan way?”

“It is not.”

Jim laughs. “So this is your human side.”

Spock seems to sense he’s been tricked. He folds his hands on his lap. “How did you know I was half-Vulcan?”

“I’m not the only one who’s famous,” Jim says, without humour. “You’re mentioned in seven different xenobiology textbooks- that I’ve counted. Not always by name.”

“You have an interest in xenobiology?”

“Well... I guess I’ve just always been friends with people who study it.”

“Doctor McCoy?”

“I do have other friends,” Jim protests. He grins, and he could almost swear he sees Spock smile back. “I took it for a while, for extra credit, but there’s only so much you can cope with. Or… should cope with.” He remembers the conversation with 9705-X, the campus therapist, and shrugs. “I had to drop something,” he says, breathlessly. “You know, if Garn really does manage to make more of these- which is hard to do when, by nature, they can’t reproduce- I wouldn't mind having one on-hand all the time.”

Tentatively, Spock hands the tribble back to him, and they sit in silence for a moment. The tribble purrs contentedly.

“Cadet Kirk,” Spock says, haltingly.

Jim squeezes the tribble. “James.”

“James.” Spock watches Nyoto for a moment. “I regret the intrusion into your mind.”

Jim’s heart pounds, but he shrugs. “You did what you had to do.” He reaches for his water with one hand, and sips it. “Bones seemed really worried.” The glass wobbles, and threatens to spill, so he sets it down again.

Spock studies him carefully.

“The greenhouse,” he says, finally. “That was why you were distressed last night.”

Jim’s heart beats a little faster, and he rocks on the spot a little. “I dislike fireworks,” he says. “Loud noises in general...” He trails off. Spock watches him with something akin to understanding, and Jim leans against the wall. He could continue to pass this off as a neurodivergence thing, but he feels like he owes Spock an explanation. He’ll only work it out otherwise, and it’s better to come from Jim himself. He clutches Nyoto, and leans towards Spock.

“Those memories you saw,” he murmurs. “They were of Tarsus IV.”

Spock blinks. “You do not have to explain-”

“I want to.” Jim exhales. “You’d only work it out anyway.” He gives Spock the slightest smile. “But I’m sorry for breaking your test.”

“You were not solely responsible. I should have objected when you attempted to retake it for a third time.”

Jim sighs, and leans back against the wall. “I couldn’t resist the challenge,” he gives a hollow laugh. “Why’d it have to be a no-win scenario?”

“This planet has four thousand less life-signs than it should,” says Captain April.

Jim looks away. He’s lying on a bio-bed, but, physically, he’s fine. A little roughed up, but he’s seen people with worse injuries.

“I just need you to tell me what happened,” the Captain says.

“Ask someone else.”

“Kid-”

“Please.”

April sits on the end of his bed. “There are two thousand people on this ship. Two thousand colonists requested emergency evacuation, and only one can tell me what happened in those domes.” He inclines his head to the next cubicle over. “Kevin. D’you know him?”

Jim stares at the ceiling.

“Now, everyone told me that the guards rounded the Epsilons up. But the only person who was there- apart from yourself- was Kevin.”

“And the guards,” Jim whispers, perhaps too quietly for April to hear, because he continues.

“He was hiding. He saw them spare you. Do you know why?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Jim whispers.

“I wasn’t asking that.”

Jim clenches his fists, and says nothing.

“I just need to know why he chose those people. Why- why he thought four thousand people needed to die.”

Robert April isn’t the first adult to expect Jim to explain things he couldn’t possibly have the answer for, and he won’t be the last. Still, here and now, Jim hears the dread, the shake of his voice, and he hates him for it.

“Because you were too late!” He shouts.

Three days too late. If Kodos had held off for 74 hours-

But he, too, was faced with a no-win scenario. Exam perfectionism aside, Jim was never going to turn away.

He doesn’t meet Spock’s eyes. He half-expects the Vulcan to explain the merits of logic, and reason. That everyone in a command position has to face difficult decisions all the time, with nothing but bad odds and worse consequences, and have to make the most of it. Instead, when he speaks, his voice is low.

“Three years ago, a starship was caught in a… Similar scenario,” he murmurs.

“Three years a-?” His eyes widen. “The Kobayashi Maru was based on The Fidas?”

Spock nods. “The simulation was designed to test cadets’ reactions to an unwinnable scenario, but, perhaps...” He looks away. “If more candidates shared your attitude, two hundred and twenty-nine crewmembers would be alive today.”

Jim exhales.

“I don’t know for sure,” Sarah says outside the curtain, “But I think it was...”

“What?”

“Eugenics. He killed all the people from the Epsilon colony, and a very specific subsection of Tarsus. Now… It could have just been revenge. He went after the Epsilons because he believed they brought the virus with them. But, The Tarsans he selected to die paint a different picture. These were two colonies the closest to the Romulan neutral zone. Most of the early colonists- of both planets- were survivors of the Romulan-Federation war. Veterans and civilians.”

“I remember,” Robert says. “It made sense. They wanted to settle somewhere they’d fought for.”

“Well...”

“Why do I sense there’s more bad news?”

“There is. Every Tarsan that died was part-Romulan.”

“The events you have witnessed still cause you pain,” Spock observes.

Jim shrugs, and lifts Nyoto on his palm. “It’s- only started bothering me recently,” he admits. “I didn’t really think about it before. It didn’t feel quite… Real to me.”

Spock nods, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could teach you to meditate.”

Jim shakes his head. “I’m not good at sitting still.” He shifts in his seat to demonstrate, and Spock only raises an eyebrow at him.

“You may find Vulcan meditation more effective.” When Jim says nothing, he continues. “Although I regret the accidental glimpse into your mind-”

“Please, don’t apologise-”

“In Vulcan culture, when one party has wronged another, it is only right to undo the damage.”

Jim hesitates.

“Allow me to help you.”

His lip twitches a little.

‘Let Me Help,’ first published 2166. The author recommends using those three words over even ‘I love you.’

Spock watches him with earnest confusion. There can be no mistaking that expression for one of romance- they’re currently sitting in Spock’s girlfriend’s quarters, for one thing- and Jim attempts to smooth his face into a more serious one.

“Very well,” he says, diplomatically. “I believe that is tradition in… Earth culture, too.”

They make plans, and chat about literature for a while, though Jim avoids the topic of Let Me Help. The discussion turns to Shakespeare, Nyoto filling the gaps in their conversation with chirps and trills, until, eventually, Jim glances at the clock.

“You think the coast is clear?”

“Perhaps.” They rise in unison. “I will walk you back,” Spock says.

“I’m not concussed,” Jim says, with a tired smile. “I’ll be fine.”

Spock doesn’t look convinced, but Jim hands the tribble to him firmly. “Thank you.”

As he takes the stairwell two-steps at a time, he can’t quite make sense of the conflicting web of elation, shame and embarrassment in his chest. In his daze, he doesn’t quite remember how he makes it home.

Chapter Text

“At last, Ensign Lemenkov, I will have my revenge!”

“What are you gonna do? Stab me?”

“Yes.”

There’s a terrible scream, and Leonard rolls his eyes.

The door opens, and shuts. Leonard glances up. “Computer, stop,” he says. The audio drama cuts off.

“What’s that?” Jim nods to the wall panel, and Leonard frowns.

“The food, or the music?” Jim flops onto the sofa, facedown, and makes a non-committal sound. “Something from Mars Colony. It’s a musical set on a starship. The main character is a roomba with a knife-”

Jim buries his face in one of the cushions, and groans. Leonard sets the plates down, and moves towards him.

“How are you feeling?” He sits gingerly on the edge of the seat. “That Vulcan went pretty quickly after you left. I managed to convince her you’d gone out of the main entrance. She definitely wasn’t happy, though.”

He only groans into the pillow again.

“Need a hug?”

He lies very still. “The results were recorded. What are they gonna think when they review the footage?”

“It wasn’t a psych test, Jim.”

“Okay, but-” Jim rolls onto his side, and looks up at him. “What would you think, if you were watching it?”

“Me? I was scared out of my wits.”

“No, Bones,” he hugs his knees to his chest. “If you were an examiner.”

“I don’t know, Jim.” Leonard musses a hand through his already-messy hair, and Jim squeezes his eyes shut.

“I should be happy. I just beat an unbeatable test.”

“OK, then…” Leonard tries a new tact. “Do you want a hug?”

“Do you?” Jim mumbles.

“Always,” Bones says, and Jim shuffles closer. Leonard waits. Jim pushes himself up slightly, and leans into him. He wraps an arm loosely around Leonard’s shoulders, and Leonard rests his head on Jim’s and holds him close.

“Two mornings ago,” Jim croaks, “What happened?”

Leonard stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been treating me… different,” he murmurs. “You didn’t want me to do The Kobayashi Maru-”

“You were over-tired. You’d just had a panic attack-”

“Yeah, but you knew that without me telling you, and I told Sulu not to tell you-”

“I’m a doctor. We know these things.”

Jim pulls away without warning, and he releases him instantly.

“See?” Jim frowns. “I’m not fragile, Bones.”

“I know. But you’ve had a long day-”

“Stop pretending this is about The Kobayashi Maru,” Jim snaps. “It’s something different. When I woke up in your bed the other day-” he tenses, and his eyes widen.

“Jim-”

“You know,” he breathes.

“Yes,” Leonard slumps. “I know.”

He shakes his head, and draws in on himself even more than before. Arms wrapped around legs. A Jim-shaped tangle of limbs and anxiety. He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.

“Jim...”

“Why didn’t you say something?” He says, in a small voice.

“What was there to say?”

“I don’t know; anything. That- that I told you and didn’t remember it-”

“You didn’t tell me,” Leonard sighs. “Not exactly.”

Jim squints at him.

“You didn’t need to say much. Your medical files mentioned that you were treated by Sarah Poole as a child. At first, I thought you must have been on Starbase Six when they were CMO there, but, when you said ‘disintegrations’...”

For the first time, Jim shivers. Until now, he seemed too wiped-out to react much, but now, he shakes his head. “That’s why I dropped xenobiology,” he whispers. “Sometimes, when I stepped into the greenhouse...” He looks down at his hands, as if he expects them to dissolve at any moment.

“Jim.” He pulls him close again, and Jim sinks into his arms, trembling. “It’s OK,” he whispers. “You’re safe.”

Like most academy dorms, theirs is open-plan. A front door, two bedrooms, and a joined bathroom; probably to get them used to the layout of a starship. The walls between them are deceptively thin.

“I heard you get back last night.” He admits, and he can’t help the scowl that comes over his face. “I heard the party too, if I’m honest.”

Jim hums, a weak attempt at a laugh. “I think the whole campus did.” The shaking subsides a little, and he takes a few, sharp breaths. “That didn’t help. The noise, and the...” He waves a hand.

“I should never have allowed you to do that exam,” Leonard says. “Let alone retake it-”

“Bones-”

“I’m a doctor, Jim. Should have declared you medically unfit the moment I worked it out.”

Jim leans back enough to give him a disparaging look. The fact that he doesn’t argue much beyond that is testament to how tired he is. They remain like that, each wallowing in their respective guilt. After a moment, Jim curls up against his chest.

“Bones?” He says, sleepily.

“Mm?”

“Don’t you get tired of taking care of me?”

“Never.” He presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m a doctor. It’s what I do.”

Jim hums a response, and closes his eyes. Bones watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest and, for the second time today, wraps James in a blanket. After a moment, he rests an arm over him, and watches him sleep.

*

Jim wakes sometime in the late evening, somehow more tired than he was when he went to sleep, and Bones makes him eat, although he’s not particularly hungry. Despite everything, it’s nothing out of the ordinary for Bones, and, for a moment, he’s grateful that malnourishment and anorexia are still well-hidden aspects of his Starfleet medical file. He sits at their small counter-table, perching cross-legged on a stool, and can’t shake the feeling that he’s a tired teenager again. It’s almost enough to make him want to call his mom, but he stops himself. If he calls her now, she’ll know something’s wrong. Instead, the moment he gets back to his room, he vidcalls Sam.

“Jimmy?” Aurelan picks up.

He winces. “Hi, Aurelan.”

“Sorry. Jim,” she corrects herself with a smile. “SAM! JIMMY- uh- JIM IS HERE!” She calls over her shoulder.

“Who’s that, then?” The video spins, and Sam’s face appears on-screen, too close. He squints. “I knew a Jim once,” he sighs dramatically. “Let me know if you see my brother, will you?”

“Alright,” Jim says, “I’ll just talk to Auri, then.”

“I’m hurt!” Sam moves the PADD away, and his face reduces to an acceptable ratio. Aurelan leans in, sticking her tongue out and going cross-eyed, and Sam pushes her out of the frame with one hand. “Aurelan, be serious. My long-lost brother is gracing us with his presence.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “You know I’ve had exams.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam slumps onto the sofa. “How’d they go?”

Jim inhales. “… Well.”

He sits up. “What’s wrong?” He glances off-screen for a moment, and there’s a slight rustle.

Jim laughs. “You’re as bad as mom.”

Aurelan’s shadow crosses Sam for a moment, and she walks away in the background of the vid, shrinking gradually smaller in frame.

“James. Tell me.”

He stares at his brother for a moment, and, finally, he does. Tells him about the nightmares, and the greenhouse, which inevitably turns to a conversation about Starbase 6. How they returned to Iowa for the first time in years, and Jim stole Frank’s car.

“… And mom didn’t even have time to be mad at me when I told her you were sneaking onto a shuttle to go and see Auri-”

“That was you?!”

“Of course it was me! You yelled at me for hours when she dragged you back home.”

“- But you said it wasn’t you!”

“No, it was one of our other brothers,” Jim rolls his eyes. “This is why I’m the brains of the family.”

“And it’s why I got the looks?”

“Eh, I always thought Auri liked you for your… Personality.”

“If I was there, I’d smack you with a pillow.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why I like to have these conversations over video-call,” he says. Sam huffs, and he grins. “You can’t stay mad at me until we meet in-person.”

“No, it’s OK, I’ll just remember it,” Sam says, darkly.

“You gonna keep a pillow on-hand, just in case?”

Sam’s eyes search the sofa around him. He picks up a pillow, and hugs it to his chest guardedly. “… I might.”

They lapse back into friendly bickering, and Jim drifts to sleep, sore from laughing.

When he next wakes up, it’s early morning. He’s still clutching the PADD loosely. When he turns it back on, there’s a message from Sam. He smiles.

‘I love you too.’ He hits send, and goes to get breakfast.

*

In the split second before he hears the door chime, Jim remembers- for the smallest fraction of a second- that he’s supposed to be meeting Spock today. Unfortunately, this also coincides with the realisation that this is Bones’ first day off in a while, which, given the events of yesterday, he’s definitely earned.

The chime suddenly seems too loud, and Jim runs for the door.

“Hi!” He leans against the frame, and just… Stares. He’s never seen Spock in non-uniform clothes before. He’s wearing a lime green jumper, and the collar of his shirt pokes out underneath it. While it’s nothing spectacular, it’s enough to make him wonder if he should have thought-through his outfit a little more; for his jeans and flannel shirt suddenly seem too casual in comparison. He smiles apologetically.

“I would invite you in, but Bones is sleeping. He doesn’t get many lie-ins, and I figure I owe it to him.”

Spock straightens. “We can relocate. Would my apartment be a suitable alternative?”

Jim smiles, and joins him in the corridor. “I should have told you sooner, so you didn’t have to walk all this way.”

“It is not an inconvenience. My building is only five minutes away.”

Jim closes the door with a soft click, and turns back to Spock. The Vulcan is watching him with a curious expression.

“What is it?”

“T’Nara intends to bring you to academic trial,” he says, almost apologetically.

It’s too early in the morning to process that, so Jim only nods, and follows his lead.

*

As they walk, Spock remembers the way in which Uhura had looped her arm with his the other day. Illogical as it was, he quite enjoyed it. He’s struck by the foolish urge to link arms with James, but he remembers that Uhura had only suggested it at the commencement of their ‘relationship’. While her behaviour had been casual, he’s not sureif it could be considered a platonic activity on Earth. The ways in which humans touch each other are contradictory, ever-changing, with infinitely more complex social rules than can be found on Vulcan. For a moment, another foolish urge strikes him- he considers telling James about the true nature of he and Uhura’s relationship.

He immediately decides against it. Jim might mention it to his colleagues at the VSA, and it is imperative that they- especially T’Nara- do not find out about it. ‘After all, the only thing that travels faster than news of a fake-relationship is the news that that relationship was false,’ Uhura had told him.

In light of this, he considers the fact that they are currently walking, shoulder-to-shoulder, across campus, and could be seen by anyone. For that reason, he places an extra half a metre between himself and James.

He recalls Uhura’s earlier suggestion. ‘Why don’t you just date James Kirk?’

It is logical, yet out of the question. One way or another, the man is currently in his care, and it is imperative that he fulfil that duty first. Besides, while Spock’s relationship with Uhura is not against academy rules (if only because he isn’t currently interred in a teaching position), that would not be the case with James. As a member of the team responsible for programming his command-track final, there is undoubtedly a conflict of interest until he graduates, or is offered a position on a starship. For now, a platonic relationship will suffice.

“So,” James says, breaking the silence as they walk across campus. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, so, naturally, few humans are awake, and there is no one else outside. “Was that deliberate?” James asks. “Mention the disciplinary hearing to get me all riled up, so you could help calm me down again?”

“That would have been highly illogical. Your mind will benefit from meditation, no matter how calm- or stressed- you are.”

“Hmm. Particularly my mind,” Jim says. He swings his arms, and bounces a little on the balls of his feet. “Perhaps the stroll will do me good, too.”

They are within range of Spock’s building now, and they turn up the path. The stone here is lined with moon-lillies, plants of non-Terran origin. They resemble snowdrops in the daytime, although they glow faintly.

“Beautiful,” Jim murmurs, also looking at the flowers. “I mean,” he winces, “Unbearable to look at first thing in the morning, but they’re even better at night.”

“… Indeed. Their bioluminescent properties give them a practical application,” Spock agrees.

“Ah, a practical application ,” James says. “Is that why you like them?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Utility is not integral to aesthetic attraction, but it frequentlyenhances it.”

James smiles. “Is this a Vulcan belief?”

“… By and large.”

When they get to Spock’s apartment, Spock moves over to the window, and opens it. It’s not particularly warm outside, and James gives him a questioning look. Spock only gestures to the sofa set in front of it. “Please, sit.”

James does so. “I meant to ask,” he says, crossing one leg over the other. “Why do Vulcans meditate?” He rests his clasped hands on his knees.

“It is necessary, particularly when we are all concentrated in one central location.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Although we rely on touch for most of our telepathy, we also give off unconscious signals. To prevent this, we must maintain our mental shields, the protection of which is dependent on emotional regulation.”

“Emotional control,” James realises. “I’m beginning to suspect I don’t know much about the biology of Vulcans.”

Spock feels a flicker of amusement at the similarities between his statement and Uhura’s from a previous morning, but remains impassive. “I will teach you to meditate as a Vulcan would.”

“Because that’s the only kind of meditation you know, or because it’s the best?”

“Both.”

“How can you know it’s the best if you only know one?”

“Because I have never needed to rely on any other kind. If this meditation can block out the thoughts of other telepaths, it will be sufficient to control the flow of your thoughts.”

“You don’t know my mind like I do.” James frowns. “Well, aside from...” He cocks his head.

Spock sits on the sofa beside him, and folds his hands in his lap. “That was… Unavoidable. I regret that I pried into your thoughts-”

“That wasn’t what I meant. But I want to-” the corner of his mouth twitches. “Explain myself.”

“You wish for me to meld with you again?”

James nods.

Spock purses his lips. “James. If it were not a life or death situation, I would not have intervened.”

“I know.”

“No.” Spock looks down. “Among Vulcans, melds are extremely personal.”

“In the same way that holding hands is personal?” James says, doing something odd with his voice.

Spock inclines his head. “It would appear you do have some knowledge about the biology of Vulcans.”

A gust of cold air blows in, and he straightens up. James shoots him a curious look, but Spock only raises an eyebrow. “I will first attempt to teach you how to shield your mind,” he says. “If we were to meld, it would be a necessary precaution-”

“Are we going to meld?”

“- It is also integral to focusing the mind before meditation.”

James seems to get the point, and settles somewhat.

“If there is anything you would not wish me to see, imagine a door.”

James’ face goes blank as he concentrates. Spock wonders if he is focusing on the memory of Tarsus. His suspicion is confirmed when James opens his eyes again, and gives him a sheepish smile.

“What if you were… Curious about what’s behind it-?”

“I would not open it.”

“But you’d… Be able to?”

“I would never intentionally invade your privacy.”

“I know. I’m not angry that you saw it,” he waves him off quickly. “You don’t have to apologise-”

“Nevertheless, I am apologising.” Spock indicates the small gap between them. He assumes the position, legs crossed simply, and James mirrors him.

“This seems a lot like other forms of meditation so far,” he comments.

“Shh.” Spock studies him for a moment. “As I said, the purpose of Vulcan meditation differs from the Terran form. You should not attempt to 'block out' awareness of external stimuli, but process them passively. Do not allow them to become distractions."

James laughs. "That could be difficult."

Spock doesn't budge. He stares at him calmly. “Try.”

Sighing, James closes his eyes, and exhales heavily. For a moment, there is silence.

An orange paw appears on the windowsill, followed by a large, fluffy body.

Spock stands, moves round the sofa, and picks it up. It wriggles a little in protest, and Spock drops it on the sofa. It meowls.

"This will assist you," Spock says, softly.

James’ brow furrows, and he places a hand out, blindly. His hand touches the soft fur, and he flinches back, then laughs, and opens his eyes. "The campus cat?”

Spock nods. "I call her Poddle.”

“Hello.” James coaxes Poddle over, and she stares at him balefully. “You know, most ginger cats are male,” he muses.

Spock places his hands behind his back. “Nevertheless, she told me she was a woman.”

“Told you? How did she-?”

Spock only raises an eyebrow.

“Right. I thought melds were supposed to be deeply personal to Vulcans?” James teases. Spock purses his lips, and James grins. “Fine, fine,” He snickers, and scratches her behind the ears. "How's she supposed to help me meditate?"

"You will see."

The cat nudges his hand impatiently. "Why 'Poddle'?" He asks, stroking her as she dictates.

"That will also become apparent."

Poddle approaches his lap with some curiosity. She steps onto him with one paw, placing all her weight on it, and he tenses.

"Close your eyes again," Spock instructs.

James bites his lip, and does as he’s told. The cat begins to paddle his lap, stepping in small circles. He curls in on himself, and hums a little. “It tickles!” He protests.

"Focus," Spock instructs. James settles.

Poddle does not.

His lip twitches as she attempts to knead a comfortable spot. "This is just making it even harder to meditate.”

"Precisely. If you can successfully ignore the stimulus of Poddle's paws, the other obstacles to meditation will be easier to overcome."

"And-" he shifts slightly. "- If I don't?"

The sofa shifts slightly as Spock sits down next to him. "Kaiidth. Regardless, the other aspects of meditation become easier by comparison."

“Kaiidth?”

“What is, is.”

"If you say so," James exhales. "You sound like you've done this before."

"You are not meditating," Spock chides. He falls quiet. Spock studies the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the soft sounds of breathing. It’s been years since he watched another person meditate, and, somehow, it seems infinitely more personal with a human present.

“Keep talking to me,” James says. His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “When you spoke to me in the greenhouse two nights ago- it was calming; focusing on your voice.”

“It would not distract you?”

He hums. “You could speak Vulcan. I don’t understand it, so the words won’t distract me.”

“Very well.”

“Your approach to the simulation was logical,” Spock says, in Vulcan. James’ mouth twitches, perhaps recognising the cognate for ‘logic’, and Spock continues. “Although it was your instincts alone which allowed you to beat it. The other programmers are still unable to work out how it occurred. It suggests,” he pauses, “An enormous sense of will.”

The human’s breathing slows, and Spock tilts his head. “The ability to rewrite a programme on a subconscious level is not unheard of, but it is exceedingly rare in humans. However, the depth with which you slept implied this was the case. Doctor McCoy was distressed when he was unable to wake you up.” At the mention of the doctor’s name, James gives another flicker of recognition. Seeing this, Spock changes tactics. “Consider the way the sun falls on an object. The shadows it casts, the way the light changes as the day goes on.

He imagines the desert in Vulcan, the changing tides of the red sands. When he stops talking, James does not seem to notice.

He studies the way the light falls on the man’s eyelashes, the long strands illuminated a pale gold by the sun.

After ten minutes, James seems to register the silence, and, his eyes finally flutter open.

“Did it help?”

Jim nods, dazed. “What did you talk about?”

Spock hesitates. “Nothing important.”

His eyebrows scrunch up. “You also mentioned Bones, right?”

“The attention to which you paid it suggests you were not truly meditating,” Spock says, stiffly.

James gives him a half-smile. “You’re right. Maybe we should try again.”

“Perhaps we should.”

*

On the way back to his dorm, Jim runs into Gaila and Gary Mitchell. The two of them are chatting excitedly, standing beside an electronic noticeboard in the centre of campus. Gary seems to sense his presence, and turns to him with a slight wave.

“James. How are you?”

“I’m… Great,” he decides. “I beat the kob-”

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Gary grumbles, and Gaila laughs.

“It’s all anyone’s talking about,” she says, as she squeezes Gary’s arm.

“Not only.” Gary protests, with a glance back to the notice-board.

Jim steps forwards. “What’s going on?”

Gaila squeezes Gary’s arm excitedly, and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Preliminary assignments,” Gary sways as Gaila jostles him slightly, and she grins.

“We’ve been assigned to the Farragut together!” She bursts. “Do you know where you’re going, yet?”

“… No,” Jim says, suddenly struck by a sinking feeling. “I don’t.”

When he searches for his name, it’s not there.

*

Uhura steps into her quarters, and drops the still-ringing PADD on the desk, with a surprised squeak.

The shattered glass on the floor is the first sign of trouble. The second is the bag of grain. She’d left it on the counter before she left this morning, and the corner is chewed clean through. In the tank, Nyoto has swollen to the size of a football.

The PADD rings again, and she glances back at the desk. “What did you do?!”

The tribble squirms slightly, too fat to do much else, and she places her head in her hands. “I’m going to kill Garn-”

The PADD rings for the fourth time, and she glares at it. A blonde profile flashes up.

|| Chrissy ❤️ ||

Heart racing, she jabs at the green button, and attempts to smooth her expression into something neutral.

“Christine. I’m a little busy right now,” she says, through gritted teeth. After a chirp from the immobile Nyoto, she sighs. “How’s Exo III right now?” She tries to keep her voice cordial, but Christine averts her gaze for a split second, and she feels a flash of triumph.

“Well, it’s nice, but I’m not sure what it’s like right now ,” she says.

“Chrissy, I don’t have time for-”

“- I’ve got good news,” Christine grins, as she pans the video out. Uhura blinks, as she recognises the interior of Guinan’s cafe. “Come meet me. We can talk in person.”

Fuck. “I...” Uhura glances at the tribble. She glances at the vidscreen. Distractingly blue eyes, exaggerated by powder-blue eyeshadow. She slumps. Christine knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Fine.” She ends the call, and messages Spock.

‘There’s something wrong with Nyoto, but I can’t fix him right now.’ Her fingers hesitate on the keyboard. She’s about to dump her tribble problems on her fake-boyfriend so she can go and talk to her ex. ‘ A… friend needs me,’ she types.

Every so often, Chrissy has bouts of spontaneity, and it forces everyone around her to be spontaneous, too- in the worst way. It doesn’t take long for Spock to reply.

‘I will check on him.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be as fast as possible,’ she types.

On her way past his dorm, she knocks on Garn’s door, with the intention to shout at him, but he doesn’t appear to be home. Either that, or he has a third-sense that helps him avoid trouble- or tribbles. She sighs, and hurries out of the door, annoyed to see that his bike is gone, too. She’ll have to walk.

*

“Academic suspension!” Jim sinks into the sofa, and Bones sighs.

“Jim, the term’s almost over-”

“That doesn’t mean anything! In three months, the fleet will be ready to deploy. You know how long Starfleet hearings can get dragged out for.”

“This is just a misunderstanding,” Bones assures him. “Your medical files prove your innocence. Why, any tampering you did with the test was purely on accident.”

“Vulcans don’t believe in accidents,” Jim murmurs, as his PADD beeps.

A message from Spock. Jim rises.

“Ha. Maybe,” Bones says.

“I’ve gotta go.”

“But you just got back-?”

“I’ll explain later.” Jim grabs the protesting doctor by the shoulders, kisses his cheek, and runs out of the building.

Chapter Text

Spock examines the empty grain sack on Uhura's shelf. There's a suspicious, tribble-shaped hole in the fabric, the edge of which has snagged a purple hair.

Spock glances at Nyoto. The tribble is noticeably fatter than usual, and understanding dawns immediately.

"You're pregnant.” He gives the tribble an accusing poke.

Nyoto squeaks, and rolls away as much as he can, although he is too chubby to move. Spock withdraws his finger, and reaches for his PADD.

'Uhura appears to be harbouring a tiny fugitive,' he types, and sends the message to James Kirk.

Before his very eyes, as Spock waits for a response, Nyoto makes a disgruntled noise, and... multiplies. It's not quite like watching a cell divide, but it's a closer descriptor than "giving birth". One moment there is only one Tribble, and the next... There are two. He blinks, and the PADD beeps.

'On my way.'

Only somewhat comforted by this, Spock taps out a response. 'There are now two of them.'

For reasons beyond Spock's comprehension, Nyoto's firstborn is a pale blue, and about half his current size. Still, Nyoto remains much larger than the average Tribble, which gives Spock pause. He was significantly smaller a few days ago, and he has a sinking feeling it's not just because of the food.

The PADD beeps again.'That's OK. I have two hands.'

'Please hurry,' Spock types, as a second, paler ball of fluff peels off from Nyoto, a faint pink.

*

Jim stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Spock, and tilts his head.

“I’m no expert, but from what I’ve read, they don't normally multiply this fast,” he says, as he examines the seven baby tribbles lined up on the counter.

"We can only infer that whatever Garn did to make them infertile only stalled the reproductive process.”

"And now, it’s making up for lost time." Jim gathers the tribbles into his arms. "We need to get them out of here, before someone notices.” He opens the door.

A small, cylindrical robot stands outside, its arm outstretched, part-way to ringing the doorbell.

“Ms Uhura?” The robot asks blankly.

“Sure,” Jim says. “Are you a... Cleaning droid?” He asks, voice hopeful.

“Containment breach,” the robot says. “We picked up several irregular readings in this area.”

Its gaze flick to the tribbles in his arms, and he slams the door shut. “Go, go, go!” he says, nodding to the wall vent beside Uhura’s replicator.

Spock raises an eyebrow.

“If they find all these tribbles in Uhura’s room, it’ll be like The Cafeteria Incident, only...” As he gestures, a yellow tribble tumbles from his arms, and he snatches it up. “Garn lives downstairs. If we can get to him, the problem will at least be-” the doorbell chimes, and he winces “- returned to its original source.”

The Vulcan tilts his head. There’s a bang on the door, and Jim braces himself against it. “Spock!”

Spock blinks rapidly, pries the vent off, and climbs inside. Jim passes him the tribbles, and follows him, replacing the metal grate somewhat awkwardly. The second it slots back into place, the door bursts open, and the robot glides in. Jim crawls backwards into the darkness, just out of sight, and tempers his breathing.

“A certain percentage of these tunnels will show up on infrared,” Spock whispers behind him, his breath on his cheek. Through the slats in the vent, Jim watches the robot survey the room, and move over to the bathroom door. That should buy them about thirty seconds.

“What do you suggest?” Jim breathes.

“That we begin moving immediately,” Spock says, as he disappears into the darkness.

Jim snatches up a few fallen tribbles. Rather than attempt to turn in the confined space, he crawls backwards, and tries not to think too hard about getting trapped in here. His breathing quickens, but the sudden appearance of another tribble provides the perfect distraction from his claustrophobia.

“Nyoto, could you give it a rest?” He whispers to the bloated tribble.

Nyoto gives an outraged squeak.

“Shh!”

A slightly quieter squeak.

“This wasn’t what I thought I’d spend my afternoon doing,” Jim murmurs. They turn a corner, and he takes the opportunity to turn around, so he’s facing the right way. Spock blinks at him in surprise.

Spock leans against the wall for a moment, still managing to look dignified in the confined space, and calmly takes some of the tribbles from him. “What were your plans?” He says, almost conversationally, as he herds the tribbles backwards.

“Sweet-talking T’Nara out of prosecuting me. Or, ‘dissecting’ me, whatever you and Bones thought she was going to do to me the other day,” he says, breathlessly. “You know, I’m beginning to think you might be a very melodramatic person.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I strive to follow the most logical option.”

“Evidently,” Jim says, as Nyoto multiplies again. A small, bright-green tribble appears, and Spock eyes it dispassionately.

He hands the tribbles back to Jim. “It is imperative that my navigation is perfect; this is a matter of life and death.”

“For the tribbles,” Jim points out.

“A life is a life.”

“Hm. And quickly multiplying.” Jim murmurs. He’s having difficulty carrying the tribbles now; there are so many. He pulls his jacket off awkwardly and bundles them into it. He bumps his elbow on the metal wall, and bites back a curse.

“Can’t you do something to stop it?” He asks, desperately. “Put Nyoto to sleep?”

“Are you suggesting I attempt a meld with a tribble?”

“Get off your Vulcan high-horse; you melded with a cat.”

“I fail to see the relation which equines bear to-”

“Do it!” Jim says, as another tribble appears. “Or we won’t make it to Garn.”

Spock stares at him for a moment, then, wordlessly places a hand on Nyoto. With a squeak of protest, the tribble goes perfectly still, and Jim breathes a sigh of relief.

“It worked.”

“That remains to be seen.” Even in the confined space, Spock turns effortlessly, and Jim watches the floor determinedly, playing a game of Count The Tribbles instead of Ogle the Vulcan.

They continue steadily downwards, and no more tribbles appear.

“You are unusually silent,” Spock observes. “And your respiration has increased.”

“I don’t like enclosed spaces. Well,” he amends, “Being trapped.”

Spock shoots him a curious look over his shoulder. “Would you prefer to go in front?”

Jim fixes his gaze on Spock’s face. There are many reasons he would prefer to go in front, seeing as he can’t stop himself from staring at Spock every few paces, but he doesn’t say that. Besides, he doubts he would survive the awkwardness of trying to squeeze past him.

“No,” he says. “Just keep moving.”

They continue in silence for a moment, until Spock comes to a sudden halt.

“What is it?” Jim asks.

“Given the high concentration of plant matter in this area, I infer that we are directly behind Garn’s wall panel.”

*

Uhura almost chokes on her drink. “Korby got obsessed with a sex robot-?!”

“Shh!” Christine looks around covertly.

The cafe is significantly more full than it was last time she was here. Right, she thinks. It’s Sunday. At the other end of the room, Guinan raises an eyebrow at her, and she looks away quickly.

“So, that’s why you came back?” She says, trying to sound casual.

*

By now, Garn is getting used to having things burst out of his wall vent, though they don’t usually look so frustrated to see him.

“Gareth Narn.” Kirk growls, as he gets to his feet. It would perhaps, be more intimidating if he wasn’t struggling to hold sixteen balls of wool. “These belong to you.”

Garn starts. “Belong to-?”

The wool shifts a little.

“Ah,” he says, taking a closer look. “I can explain...”

*

“- not the only reason.” Christine takes a deep breath. “I… Realised you were right.”

The statement hangs in the air for a moment, and Uhura exhales. “Sounds like you’ve had a wild three weeks.” She sips her pink hot chocolate. By now, the toppings have melted into a huge, sticky mess, and the liquid itself is viscous, and stubborn.

“Well, what about you?” Christine prompts.

“Weeks?” She shakes her head. “No. But- it has been a strange three days.”

“Oh?”

She’s about to mention Spock, when something stops her. She isn’t free from hypocrisy. Not in Christine’s eyes. Instead, she smiles brightly, and shakes her head. “What’s your plan now?”

Her eyes flicker, but she straightens up. “Well, I’ve graduated now. I could do either nursing or exobiology,” she says.

“You’re just going to pick up where you left off?”

“Well, I’ve just transferred back. The fleet hasn’t set off yet. It’s like you said; I can do anything I want-”

“Not everything,” Nyota says.

Her smile dims. “What?”

“You can’t pick up everything where you left off.”

*

Garn stands on the pavement below, arms outstretched.

“Throw them down!” he yells.

Jim clutches the tribbles to his chest. “No!”

“It’s only one storey, they’ll be fine!”

Jim glances at Spock. “Will they?”

He tilts his head. “Difficult to say.”

The tribbles quiver.

“We need a parachute!” Jim shouts, as he turns to Garn’s bed.

“Don’t you dare!” Garn replies.

Three minutes later, Garn holds a blanket out in front of him, scowling, as they carefully drop the tribbles, one by one. Finally, they’re left with one, bright-pink tribble. When thy drop it, it bounces out of the makeshift parachute, and rolls onto the floor. Quick as a flash, a streak of ginger tears towards them.

“Poddle, no!” Jim cries.

Garn dives the fallen tribble, and the cat comes to a screeching halt. A pair of yellow eyes watch him resentfully.

“Shove off, cat,” Garn says, tucking the tribble into his shoulder bag. “That all of them?” He calls up to Jim.

“Yeah,” Jim calls.

Garn gives him a thumbs up, and disappears out of view again, as Poddle slouches back into the shadows. After a moment, Gary re-emerges, wheeling out a motorbike, and Jim stares.

“Hey. I know that bike,” he says.

“Yeah?” Garn kicks the supports out from under it. “I won it in a game of cards, off Gary Mitchell.”

The door chimes behind them, and Jim waves at Garn to get moving. Jim shoots Spock a quick look before answering it, but he’s reassured by the deep rumble of the bike engine outside. Spock’s hair is still slightly askew from his crawl through the tunnels, and Jim imagines his own can’t look much better. With a sigh, he pulls the door open.

“Hello,” says the same robot as before. “We identified a number of irregular life readings in this area, and-” he stops. “Ms Uhura?”

Jim gives a winning smile. “James Kirk, actually.”

“Ms James Kirk,” the robot says, as he glides inside. “You were spotted earlier with life forms which contravene Californian importation laws, Terran standards for invasive species, and Federation guidelines on-”

“You won’t find anything in here,” Jim says, with far too much confidence for someone who’s currently standing next to a Galapamayus sprout. He does a double-take, and shuffles in front of the offending plant.

The robot narrows its eyes.

“Would you believe,” Jim says, slowly, “That we had nothing to do with it?”

*

As her feet carry her back the way she came, Uhura is only half-aware of her movements. The sun is setting, and blinding light reflects off every shopfront. She passes people and aliens alike, without a word, and heads back to the academy. As she approaches, the sound of laughter stops her in her tracks.

Kirk and Spock are sitting on the pavement outside the East Entrance. She blinks, and resumes walking, but neither of them seem to hear her footsteps. The campus cat lounges on Kirk’s lap, burning orange in the embers of the sun, and Uhura picks up her pace.

“Locked Out?” She asks, and Kirk starts.

“… Something like that,” he admits, with a sheepish grin. He pulls the cat from his lap. “Containment were in your room.”

“What?” She murmurs.

The three of them head inside campus together, while Spock and Kirk explain everything in hushed tones. They get quieter the closer they get to the main building, but, by now, Uhura’s got the gist.

Every resident of her building- excluding Garn- are gathered on the pavement outside cybernetics.

“Garn, again,” says M’nra, a pink-skinned Merlalian woman.

“I heard,” Uhura murmurs, as a flash of blue illuminates a window on the second floor. M’nra wrings her hands.

“They couldn’t have find anything in mine, but they still insisted on cleaning out the wall vent,” she huffs.

Jim shuffles guiltily, and Spock stands very still. Uhura shoots them an amused look. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthes, certain that, if they hadn’t moved the tribbles, it would be her room being torn apart right now. Upstairs, there’s another flash of blue light.

Over the course of the next few hours, the rest of the crowd disperses, and the residents are finally allowed back inside.

“This has greatly interrupted my sleep cycle,” M’nra comments, as she slams her door shut. Half a minute later, the air is filled with the sound of loud snoring.

Uhura continues up the stairs, and steps into her room.

With the exception of the smashed tribble-case, everything looks the same. The slats in the blinds let in the moonlight from outside.

It’s unusually silent without the sound of Nyoto’s contented trills. Over the past three weeks, she’s got used to holding the tribble to help her sleep, especially on nights like this. Any time studying got her mind racing at a mile-per-minute. Anytime she got it into her head to worry about Christine.

If only Garn’s math had been correct, she thinks. He was right about one thing: Tribbles would make great pets. She settles on her side, and extends her arm into the half-darkness.

At least tomorrow will be quieter.

Chapter Text

A piercing wail. Jim shoots out of bed, and is halfway to the computer before he’s fully awake.

“Computer?!” He covers his ears. “Computer, what is going on-?”

The alarm cuts out, but the flashing lights continue.

“We have received a distress signal from Vulcan. All third-year cadets are to report to Hangar One immediately. Do you acknowledge?”

“Ye-”

There’s a blast of the alarm, and Jim clenches his hands over his ears again.

“We have received a distress signal from Vulcan. All third-year cadets are to report to Hangar One immediately. Do you acknow-?”

“YES!”

“- ledge?”

“- I ACKNOWLEDGE!”

The alarm stops.

Jim opens his bedside drawer on instinct. His hands move by themselves, popping a foil seal, and he pops the capsule into his mouth. Then, he downs the entire glass of water on his night-stand.

Tap, tap, THUD. Jim’s door is thrown open, and Bones hops in, one leg into a pair of trousers. “… Morning.”

Jim swallows with a grimace. “Not a good one,” he grunts.

“You can say that again.”

“Not a good-”

“Alright, alright! I’m not awake enough for this,” he growls, and sits beside Jim. For a moment, he watches Bones struggle with his shoelaces, and feels a stab of terror.

Jim’s heart races.

“Fuck it,” he scrambles for his uniform, and pulls it on. A granola bar falls from the pocket, and he dives for it. “Let’s go,” he says, shoving it back into his pocket.

*

When he tries to get into the shuttle, an assigner jumps in front of him.

“Kirk, you’re on academic suspension.”

“But my computer woke me up. It’s an emergency situation, so I thought-”

“You’re right!” She says, brightly, “There must be some mistake. Let me check...” She scrolls through her PADD, and pouts. “Well, it says here, you’re grounded until the academy resolves the following issues: Cheating on the Kobayashi Maru-”

“- That was a misunderstanding.”

“- and you were reported last night by Containment for...” The mock-pout deepens into a genuine frown. “Smuggling dangerous life forms around campus, all of which are still missing.”

“That was Ms James Kirk,” Jim grumbles. “And they’re not dangerous, they’re-” he shrugs Bones’ arm off. “Bones, no-”

“Come on, Ms Kirk, let’s get you back to your quarters,” Bones says, loudly.

*

“Christine has been assigned to the Enterprise?” Uhura says. Spock frowns, and goes to check something on his PADD.

“Well, I was the top of my class,” a familiar voice crows behind her. She turns. Christine is standing on the boarding ramp, blonde hair immaculately coiled on top of her head.

“So was I,” Uhura says, cooly. She raises an eyebrow at Spock.

“Hello, cadet Chapel.” Spock’s eyes flick between the two of them, then back to the PADD.

“I graduated, actually.”

“Nurse Chapel.”

“Good enough,” she shrugs. “Cadet Uhura,” she nods, curtly, and steps into the shuttle. She chooses a seat not far from the door, so Uhura lowers her voice.

“I was top of my class, too.”

“I am aware,” Spock purses his lips.

“Then why-?”

“It was an attempt to avoid the appearance of favouritism,” Spock matches her volume, still typing something onto the PADD.

“Spock!” She folds her arms. “We’re not even dating,” she whispers. “You were well aware of my own, qualified desire to serve on The Enterprise, and yet, I’m assigned to The Farragut?”

“These were intended as temporary assignments for the rescue-mission only-”

“No. I’m assigned to the En-”

Spock’s fingers still, and Uhura’s own PADD beeps. She glances at it.

||ENTERPRISE||

“Yes, I believe you are,” Spock says, with the slightest hint of amusement.

“… Thank you,” she gives him a small smile.

His mouth forms into a thin line, and she touches his wrist lightly. Since the initial distress call, Vulcan hasn’t been in contact. She sends a wave of calm to counteract his own worry, then steps into the shuttle.

Christine is watching her. It’s clear that she heard at least part of their discussion at the door. Her eyes linger on Uhura’s hand, like an accusation. She opens her mouth to say something, but Christine turns back to the window, and stares out of it. Uhura exhales, and moves further down the shuttle.

*

“What are you doing?” Jim hisses, as Bones bundles him into the corner of the medical office.

“I'm doing you a favour,” Bones says. “I couldn't just leave you there, looking all pathetic. Take a seat.”

Feeling overwhelmingly suspicious, Jim does so. Bones rustles through a drawer. “I'm going to give you a vaccine against viral infection from Melvaran mud fleas.”

“Um-”

“Did you take your adderall this morning?” Bones asks, prepping a second hypo.

Jim frowns. “The alarm went… And now we’re here… So, no.”

“Alright. Good.” Bones drops the second hypo, and injects Jim quickly.

“Son of a-” Jim rubs his neck. “What was that for?”

“Well, it’ll give you the symptoms.” Bones drops the spent hypo into a disinfection slot.

“Bones! Why?!”

“You're going to lose vision in your left eye-”

Jim blinks, and his eye goes blurry. “Yeah, I already have,” he pouts.

Bones lifts him to his feet, and walks him to the door in what can only be described as frog-marching.

“Oh, and you're going to get a really bad headache and a flop sweat.”

Jim groans, and clings to him for support. “You call this a favour?”

“Yeah.” Bones places a hand on his lower back. “You owe me one.”

All the shuttles in this section are heading to The Enterprise, and, as they pass the one at the very end, James gets a vague… warm feeling. Peppermint? He looks around, and catches sight of deep, science blue. Suddenly, that vague something he’s been sensing coalesces into one, central point. Jim groans. Granted, he’s never really hallucinated before, but he didn’t think it involved quite these many swirling colours.

“Spock?” Jim babbles. “I thought it was just regular anxiety, you know, excitement, that buzz, but- Bones- I think I can sense-”

“Come on,” Bones steers him past Spock’s shuttle, and Jim raises an arm as they walk past.

Spock is standing on the boarding ramp of one at the end, ushering the final few cadets on. Although Jim’s feeling pretty shaky himself right now, not all of it originated with him; he’s sure of it.

Is three days really enough time for a bond with a Vulcan to form? He groans, and fights a wave of dizziness.

Spock! Jim thinks, hard. Spock turns with a frown and searches the crowd, then turns away.

“Jim.” Bones drags him up the boarding ramp to a different shuttle.

“Doctor Leonard McCoy and my patient, James T Kirk,” Bones says.

“Doctor McCoy,” The assigner nods. Checks his list. There’s a pause. “Kirk, James T. Uhhh-” He puts his arm out. “He's not cleared for duty aboard the Enterprise.”

Bones’ grip tightens on his upper arm. “Medical Code states the treatment and transport of a patient to be determined at the discretion of his attending physician- which is me. So, I'm taking Mister Kirk aboard. Or would you like to explain to Captain Pike why the Enterprise warped into a crisis without one of its senior medical officers?”

The assigner sighs, presses something on his PADD, and shakes his head. “As you were.”

“C’mon,” Bones pulls him inside. The shuttle spins.

“Ugh,” Jim closes his eyes, stumbles over to the seat Bones guides him to. “I might throw up on you,” he presses a hand to his head, and feels Bones strap him into his seatbelt.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mutters, settling beside him. He has the window seat. Jim shudders violently as the shuttle fills up, and- three minutes or three hours later, Jim can’t tell- a voice tells them they’re ready to depart. Somehow, the spinning gets worse. Jim groans, and places his head between his knees.

“Jim!” He must be dreaming, because Bones is never this excited about space. A hand grips his shoulder. “Jim, you’ve gotta see this, look!”

“Kill me,” Jim says. He straightens up, and does his best to look out of the window. A large, blue blob, surrounded by smaller, white blobs, and a few large, grey blobs, which they’re heading towards. He shivers, and closes his eyes. “Mm.”

A few minutes later, Bones unbuckles him from the seat. “We’ve pulled into the shuttlebay.”

“I don’t feel… right,” Jim says, as Bones grips his arm. “I feel like I’m leaking.”

“It’s fine; we’re going to medbay- oh hell.” Bones pulls him to the left, and Jim looks up. The corridor is a mess of fast-moving colours, people- are they people?- walking far too fast, and- loud? Can people walk loud? This can’t be a symptom of MelT'Venan-whatever.

“Bones...” Jim grunts. “I really wish I’d had time to take my adderall.”

“Well, I’m not, because adderall and placebo vaccine’s don’t mix.”

“What?”

Bones drags him round a corner. “Hurry up! It’s your pointy-eared friend.”

“Spock? Why are we avoiding Spock? HI, SPO-”

Bones clamps a hand over his mouth, and hurries him down the corridor. “You’re not supposed to be on board! Can you at least lay low for a while?”

“Mm, Spock likes me.”

“I’ll bet he likes obeying protocol more.”

“Maybe,” Jim admits. He watches the wall, and is vaguely aware that Spock is moving… upwards. “It’s OK, he’s in the turbolift now.”

“How on Earth do you know that?”

“Bond,” Jim closes his eyes, but the world keeps spinning. “But, if I can see him, he can see me-”

“Talk less.”

Jim opens his eyes. “Whoaaaa.” The world tilts too much for him to make anything out. “Where are we?”

“Medbay.”

“Where?”

“The Enterprise, dummy.”

“Does it always spin like this?” Bones ignores him, and pulls him towards an empty bed. A blonde-and-blue blob approaches. Pale. “Hi! How are you?” Jim says, loudly. Maybe she smiles. A nurse, possibly a woman. She’s either humanoid, or has two heads. Jim can’t remember how long Bones has had four arms for, either, but something tells him not to ask. He still isn’t convinced this isn’t a very intense fever dream.

“Sit down,” Bones pushes him, and he falls onto something soft.

“Do you need any help?” Blonde-nurse-blob asks.

“I’m not sure this was worth it,” Jim hums.

“I’m going to sedate him,” Bones says to the blob.

“Why?” Asks the nurse-blob.

“I’m very annoying,” Jim says, helpfully. “How long will-?” He feels Bones’ hand on his neck, the press of a hypo, and sinks back on the bed. “Ow.” He clutches the side of his neck, and attempts to glare in Bones’ general direction. “I wish I didn’t know you,” he murmurs, and passes out.

*

“I surrender! Please- please!” Jim manages between giggles. Gaila continues to tickle him. He grabs her wrists, and succeeds in pushing her hands back, but she only nuzzles his neck with her nose until he bursts out laughing again.

“Humans are so ticklish,” she muses.

“We’re not all-” he squirms. The floor is carpeted, and would otherwise be comfortable, if not for the fact that an Orion woman was currently tickling him. “Aren’t all species ticklish? It’s an important biological defe-” he wriggles away from her, and she grabs his ankles, tickling his feet.

“How do you get anything done?”

“Generally, we don’t stop to tickle our study partners,” he wheezes.

“But how can anyone resist?” She fans her hand out across both of his wrists, freeing up her hand to tickle his stomach.

“Gaila!”

Eventually, she stops, but continues to pin him down. She gazes at him, and he catches his breath. After a moment, he tries to pull his arms away, to enact revenge, but she holds fast.

“You know,” Gaila muses, “I think I love you.”

“What?” Jim says. “That is so weird.”

Gaila gives him a look. “You don’t love me too?”

“Well, you’re a good fr-”

Gaila lunges for his stomach again, and he tries to curl in on himself, but she weighs his legs down easily. “Say it!”

“Gaila!” He tries to squirm away. “You can’t tickle a confession out of someone!”

“Admit it!”

Jim shakes his head, pursing his lips together to keep from laughing. She relents for a moment, and he begins to wriggle free, until she places a hand on his chest.

“Wait.” She freezes, and tilts her head. Her eyes widen. “Get under the bed.” She rolls off him, and knees him gently in the side.

He frowns. “What?”

“My roommate’s coming.”

“So?”

“She can’t see you.”

“I gathered, but wh- Ow! Why?!”

“I promised her I'd stop bringing guys back to the room. At least until she moves out.”

“But we were only studying, just tell her-”

“Your hair’s dishevelled!”

“Whose fault was that?” He gripes, as he dives under the bed.

The door opens, and Uhura steps in, wearing a rain-drenched coat.

“Hi!” Gaila calls, brightly. She sits on the bed with her legs hanging down to hide James somewhat. He shuffles back until his back hits the wall, and tries to soften his breathing. “I thought you were out all night?”

“Well, I was,” Uhura frowns, and removes the jacket before it can soak the floor. “They sent us home. I was in the long-range sensor lab with this other cadet, Peter Grenson, when I picked up an emergency transmission.”

The bed shifts slightly. “What?”

“We called it in, and some Starfleet higher-ups came to take over. As far as I could work out, the call came from a Klingon prison planet.”

“Was it a distress call?”

“Not exactly. A Klingon armada was destroyed. Forty-seven ships!”

“What could do that?”

“Apparently, some huge ship, with-” Uhura stops talking abruptly. “Gaila… Who is he?”

“What? Who’s who?”

“The mouth breather under your bed.”

“You can hear me breathing?” Jim slides his head out, and frowns at Uhura upside-down.

“You!”

“You!” Jim pulls a face at her.

Gaila prods him with her big toe, and he tickles her experimentally.

Nothing.

He sighs, and rolls out fully. “I heard you were moving out.”

“I need my own space. They kept us in the same dorm as last year.”

“Blame Pike’s recruitment drive; they had to squeeze more freshers in this year.”

Uhura folds her arms. “And last year,” she raises an eyebrow at him.

“Touché.” He stretches out as much as he can, and bumps his legs on the side of the bed. “You’re moving next to the cybernetics building, right?”

“Yeah.”

He snorts. “Then you’re going to have even less space.”

“Space as in privacy,” she glares at him pointedly.

“Hey. For the record, you walked in on us.”

“I don’t want to know,” she holds up a hand, and Jim runs a hand through his hair self-consciously.

“We were just-” He changes the subject. “You know, Gary lived in the Cybernetics building in second year, when his roommate bailed on him. D’you know who lives there now?”

Uhura wrings out her damp hair, and eyes him.

“The other Gary.”

“Garn?”

Jim nods. “I hope you like plants.”

“I do.” She toes her shoes off. “Now, out.”

*

“May I have your attention, please. At twenty-two hundred hours, telemetry detected at an anomaly in the neutral zone. What appeared to be a lightning storm in space...” a voice comes over the speakers, Russian-accented.

Jim’s eyes snap open.

“...Starfleet received a distress signal from Wulcan High Command that their planet was experiencing seismic actiwity. Our mission is to assess the condition of Wulcan, and to assist in the ewacuations if necessary. We should be arriving at Wulcan in fifteen minutes. Thank you for your time.”

“Lightning storm in space?” Jim pushes himself up on his arms, and grimaces.

Bones turns, blinks at him, and grabs another hypo. “You’re not meant to be awake yet.”

“Good to see you too.” Jim dodges the sedative.

Bones sighs, and sets it down. “How do you feel?”

Jim rests his hands on his lap. “Like my roommate kidnapped me-”

“- Good God, man!”

Jim catches sight of his hands, and yelps. “What the hell?!” They’ve have swollen to three times their normal size.

“- It’s a reaction to the vaccine,” Bones curses.

“Ah,” Jim says, distantly. “Well, that answers your earlier question.”

“Nurse Chapel, I need fifty cc's of cortisone.”

“Here,” the nurse from earlier says. “You, lie down,” she pushes Jim back onto the pillows, and he squints at her.

“Huh. So, good news; we know I remembered to take my meds this morning,” Jim says, as Chapel stabs him in the arm. “Ow. Thank you,” he tries to sit up again, but she holds him down. He tilts his head, struggles experimentally, and goes limp. “You’re strong,” he murmurs, approvingly. “OK; could you at least hand me a PADD?”

“If it’ll get you to sit still, yes,” she says, and sticks him in the arm again.

“Ah! Bones?!”

The doctor folds his arms. “You know, I like her,” he smirks.

“I take it ‘Bones’ is a nickname, and he’s not hallucinating?” Chapel says, as she passes a PADD to Jim.

“Yes,” Bones grabs a tricorder and runs it over Jim. As the swelling on his fingers goes down, Jim manages to access the most recent ship’s log, and replays it.

“-twenty-two hundred hours, telemetry detected at an anomaly in the neutral zone.”

“The neutral zone,” Jim vaults off the bed. “We’ve got to stop the ship!”

Chapel curses. “You come back here, young man-!”

“Yeah, what she said,” Bones says, barrelling after him.

“Thank you, Chapel,” Jim scurries away. “Is she really older than me?”

“You’re a baby. Everyone is older than you. Stop running,” Bones pants, still clutching the hypo.

“Are you really going to chase me through the whole ship?” Jim taunts, keeping ahead of him easily.

“You won’t be able to run through the entire ship; you’ll be dead,” Bones grunts.

“You didn’t get a clear reading on that thing,” Jim gasps. “Try again.”

“I didn’t get a clear reading because you-” Bones grabs his arm. “Jim! I'm not kidding, we need to keep your heart rate down!”

“Good luck with that. Computer, locate crew member Uhura!”

“JIM.”

“Acting Communications Officer Uhura is in communications,” the computer barks from the wall.

“Makes sense,” Jim gasps. “Computer, where is communications?”

“Follow the arrows.” The wall panels light up, and Bones swears.

“Computer! Could you stop helping this man? He’s my patient, and I need him back in medbay.”

“Follow the arrows to medbay,” the computer says. The arrows suddenly point back the way they came, and Bones laughs triumphantly.

“Computer, show me the way to communications again,” Jim says. The arrows remain, stubbornly, pointed towards medbay.

“… Verification required,” the computer says. Somehow, she sounds suspicious. And familiar.

“Does the computer sound like that nurse to you? Chapel?”

“What?” Bones gasps.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jim says, as they tear round the corner. Nestled at the end of the corridor are a group of communications officers, all dressed in red. “Uhura! Uhura!”

She spins. “What the hell, Kirk?!”

“The transmission from the Klingon prison planet-”

“- What? That was months ago, Kirk-”

“But it’s relevant,” he holds up a finger.

“Oh my god! What happened to your hands?”

“… Him,” Jim nods to Bones, who’s catching his breath beside him. “It’s under control.”

“No it isn’t,” Bones mutters. There’s a click, which sounds suspiciously like a hypo being prepped, but Jim doesn’t dare look.

“Nice uniform, by the way,” Jim tries a different tack. She’s wearing the miniskirt uniform variation, and she rolls her eyes.

“I’m surprised you didn’t choose it.”

“Yeah, well-” he glances down at his outfit, then back to Bones. “Did you change my uniform?”

Bones shrugs.

Uhura straightens, and taps something on her screen.

“Who was responsible for the Klingon attack? Was the ship Ruh-” he bites his tongue, and turns to Bones. “What's happening to my mouth?”

“Ah.”

“Hh?!”

“You’ve got numb tongue?”

“’ones!”

“I can fix it! Computer, show route to medibay.

There’s an error sound. “Route already exists.”

“Oh, right.” Bones sprints away.

Uhura looks aghast. “Jim.” She takes him by the shoulders. “Was the ship what?”

Jim grits his teeth, and, as much as he can, begins to move his hands. He hopes American Sign Language is one of the languages she speaks.

“Rom-”

“Romulan!” One of the other communications officers shouts helpfully, and she waves them away.

“Thank you, Grenson,” she looks back up at Kirk. “Yes, it was Romulan. Kirk, you really need to get back to med-”

“No,” he grabs her hand. “We nurd do bet oo eh bidge.”

“And do what? You can’t even talk properly-”

“Not a problem,” Bones reappears, and hypos Jim in the neck.

“Ah! Sop rooin’ ‘at!” Jim grunts. He exhales, and side-eyes the doctor. “Thanks.”

“Now will you come back to medbay with me-?”

“Not a chance.” Over his shoulder, Jim spies nurse Chapel, attempting to sneak up on him from behind. “RUN!” He grips Uhura’s hand tighter.

“Wh-?” She glances round. Her eyes widen, and she doesn’t resist as he drags her down the corridor.

“Ask the computer where the bridge is,” he pants.

“W-? Kirk, the turbolift’s just at the end of the corridor,” Uhura protests. She steers him twards it, and releases his hand. “J- Kirk- are you sure you should be-?”

“Yes!” He bundles her into the turbolift, and closes the door before Bones can catch up with them. “Bridge,” he says. The computer makes an error sound, and Jim glances to Uhura.

“Bridge,” she confirms. The lift speeds upwards. “Why won’t the computer respond to you?”

“I’m a stowaway.”

“What?!”

The second the doors open, Jim jumps out, and runs towards the chair in the centre of the room. “Captain!”

Uhura covers her mouth with a hand.

Pike turns. “Kirk?” His face goes through the seven stages of grief in the span of a second. “How the hell did you get on board the Enterprise?”

“Doesn’t matter. We have to stop the ship,” Jim says, breathlessly.

On the other side of the bridge, the second turbolift opens, and Bones steps out. “Jim, no!” He steps in front of Jim. “Captain, this man's under the influence of a severe reaction to a vaccine, completely-”

“- Vulcan is not experiencing a natural disaster.” Jim steps around him.

“- delusional. I take full responsibility-”

“- It's being attacked by Romulans-”

“Romulans?” Pike rubs a hand over his face. “Kirk, no-one’s seen a Romulan for-”

“Twenty years.” Jim says.

There’s silence for a moment as the implication sinks in.

Pike slumps in his chair. “This had better be good.”

“Right.” He takes a deep breath, and wheels on the helm. Sulu gives him a tight smile, and Kirk seeks out the man next to him. “I wasn’t hallucinating; I checked the ship’s record- you said there was a lightning storm in space, right- what’s your name?”

“Chekhov-” The ensign shoots a look to Pike, then back to Jim. “Um. Yes.”

Jim points to nothing in particular. “That same anomaly also occurred on the day of my birth, before a Romulan ship attacked the USS Kelvin-”

“That may be the case, but we’d know if the Empire had breached the neutral zone-”

“- But maybe we wouldn’t. The logs said, that ship had formidable and advanced weaponry, and was never seen or heard from again. Their cloaking technology could be better than ours, too. The Kelvin attack took place on the edge of Klingon space, so what if-” he notices Spock watching him, and inhales. “What if the ship was just- sitting there?”

“For two decades? Look, Kirk-”

“A few months ago, forty-seven Klingon warbirds were destroyed by a Romulan ship. One, massive ship.”

“And how do you know this?”

Jim turns to Uhura, standing just beside Bones. She gives the slightest shake of her head, but turns to Pike. “Sir, I intercepted and translated the message myself. I can get the report up for you-?” She takes a step towards the communications desk, and Pike waves a hand.

“Do it.”

The communications chief makes way for her.

“We're warping into a trap, sir,” Jim says. “The Romulans are waiting for us, I promise you that.” He feels a pang of worry which isn’t his own, and glances at Spock, but his face is impassive.

Pike turns to him, too, and, suddenly, all eyes in the room shift to the first officer. Spock’s eyebrow twitches, and he places his hands behind his back.

“The Cadet's logic is sound.” Spock offers him the smallest smile, and Jim’s heart leaps. It’s probably a side-effect of everything Bones has pumped into me, he thinks. “And Lieutenant Uhura is unmatched in xenolinguistics; we would be wise to accept her conclusion.” Spock turns his smile on Uhura, and Jim feels a twinge of… Something.

Pike spins back to the communications desk. “Scan Vulcan space again. Check for any transmissions in Romulan.”

The communications chief hesitates. “Sir, I'm not sure I can distinguish the Romulan language from Vulcan.”

Jim frowns, and looks at the man again. He looks to be in his late-twenties, not much older than the rest of them; still relatively young by Starfleet standards.

“What about you?” Pike looks at Uhura again. She turns slightly, though her hands continue tapping at the controls. “Do you speak Romulan, Cadet?”

“All three dialects, sir.” The report she was accessing maximises onscreen, and Pike smiles a little.

“Uhura, relieve lieutenant Reve.”

She freezes, and looks to Reve. He nods at her. “… Aye, sir,” she says.

Reve pulls the chair out for her. “We’ll monitor you from downstairs,” he says.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Hannity, hail the USS Truman,” Pike says.

“Hailing frequencies open,” Hannity says.

Uhura’s hands move like lightning again, and Reve strides away. Bones gives Jim one final, terse nod, and joins Reve in the turbolift.

Hannity looks up. “All the other ships are out of warp, sir, and have arrived at Vulcan, but we seem to have lost all contact.”

Pike frowns. “With the ships-?”

“- Sir, I can detect no Romulan transmissions.” Uhura looks up, and frowns at Hannity. She flicks a switch. “No transmissions of any kind in the area.”

“None from the fleet, none from Vulcan,” Hannity confirms.

“They’re being silenced,” Uhura says. “We’re being silenced.”

Spock stiffens.

“They’re being attacked,” Jim murmurs.

Pike swears. “Shields up. Red alert.”

Sulu looks up. “Arrival at Vulcan in five seconds...”

Jim grips the back of Sulu’s chair, and glances at Spock. Something flits between them- perhaps through the partial bond- but it’s too fleeting to make an impression. Still, he’s seen that look before. It’s the same look Spock gave him in the greenhouse, and when he woke up after passing The Kobayashi Maru.

Carefully controlled fear.

“… Four… Three… Two…”

Chapter Text

“… One.”

Spock is gripped by an unpleasant buzz, a second-hand adrenaline rush. James is flushed pink, and Spock tunes out the emotions he’s receiving from him. It's more difficult than it should be, despite the fact that their bond is only partial.

Vulcan may have gone silent over the sub-space communications channels, but the closer they get to Vulcan, the louder the planet becomes. He’s been aware of his mother’s presence ever since they approached the solar system, but now, the feedback of other minds filters in. Harder to ignore by the second.

As they warp into orbit around Vulcan, there’s a collective gasp. A large spaceship looms over the planet, at least thrice the size of a Federation starship, firing on The USS Truman-

Which The Enterprise has just warped in front of.

“Evasive manoeuvres!” Pike grips tighter to the sides of his chair.

“Running sir!” Sulu shouts. The bridge lurches, and Spock stumbles forwards. James catches him by the arm, his other hand clinging to the back of the helmsman’s chair. Chekhov lies sprawled on the floor, thrown clear by the explosion.

“Damage report?” Pike says.

Sulu helps Chekov up, and checks his readout. “Shields holding, sir.”

Pike presses a button on the chair. “Damage report, all stations! Engineer Olson, report. Full reverse, about-turn starboard ninety degrees, drop us underneath the Romulan ship.”

Spock makes his way back towards his station, and James trails after him, looking somewhat dazed. At communications, Hannity moves next to Uhura. “Captain, if we divert power from the-”

“- Captain, they're locking torpedoes,” Sulu says.

“Divert auxiliary power from port nacelles to forward shields.”

“Aye, s-” The bridge shakes again, and Spock grabs the nearest thing, which happens to be James. He falls into a seat, and Spock narrowly avoids collapsing on top of him by bracing himself against the console.

“Sorry, commander,” James says, weakly.

“The fault was entirely mine, cadet.”

“Or gravity-” his eyes widen as the ship is hit by another blast.

“Sulu, status report,” Pike grits.

“Shields at thirty-two percent,” Sulu grimaces.

“Deck six is- gone-” Uhura says. “Reporting heavy losses.”

“Their weapons are powerful, sir; we can't take another hit like that.”

“No shit. Can we send a message to Starfleet command?”

“If we reroute power to communications, we’d have a chance,” Hannity says, “But that’s it.”

Pike turns to Spock, and raises an eyebrow at him. Spock blinks, realises he’s frozen, and turns back to the console. He checks the scanner, and studies the vessel. Their attempts to advance on the ship were not in vain, for he can see the underside of it more clearly now. “The Romulan ship has lowered a high-energy pulse device directly into Vulcan’s atmosphere.” Compared to the rest of the ship, it appears to be no larger than a thin rod, the top of which is flashing faintly.

“That’s what’s blocking our comms.” Pike says, stone-faced.

He straightens. “Most likely.” His eyes meet Uhura’s, and she shakes her head at him, a grim smile on her face.

“All transporter functions are down too, sir,” Chekhov says.

“Vessel has locked torpedoes again, sir,” Sulu says, grimly.

“Channel as much as you can to forward shields and fire anything that’s still operational,” Pike says, grimly. Not even The Fidas had gone down this quickly.

Spock places a hand on the back of James’ chair, his fingertips just brushing his shoulders. James looks up at him, eyes wide, and leans towards him slightly.

“Weapons locked, sir,” Sulu says.

“Prepare to f-”

There’s a beeping sound.

Uhura’s eyes widen. “Captain, we're being… hailed!”

“So that device must let some frequencies through,” Hannity murmurs, running back to his own station. “If I can crack the one they’re using-”

“Onscreen,” Pike growls, and rises from his seat.

An image flickers onscreen. Years ago, the Federation’s war against the Romulans was fought before the advent of ship-to-ship communication; subspace only, and, as such, no-one knew what Romulans looked like until twenty years ago. Even with this, all video evidence from The Kelvin was destroyed along with the ship, though the survivors reports suggested that Vulcans and Romulans may share a common ancestry. As Spock looks at the Vulcanoid face on-screen, it’s easy to see why. However, despite the pointed ears, the Romulan Captain is entirely bald, and his face is heavily decorated by tattoos.

“Hello,” The Romulan grins, but it’s one bite away from becoming a snarl.

“I'm Captain Christopher Pike. To whom am I speaking?”

“Hi Christopher, I'm Nero.” Nero’s voice is light, delicate- a forced cheeriness which gives his voice a dangerous edge. Pike, perhaps, mistakes this as an attempt to defuse the situation, and moves closer to the screen.

“You've declared war against the Federation. Withdraw. I'll agree to arrange a conference with Romulan leadership at a neutral locati-”

“I do not speak for the Empire.” Nero’s eyes are searching the viewscreen, trying to see the bridge behind Pike. “We stand apart.” He must find what he’s looking for, because his face breaks into a crude smile. “As does your Vulcan crewmember! Isn't that right, Spock?”

Beside him, Jim stiffens. The one person who doesn’t react is Hannity, bent over the communications panel and working furiously. The rest of the bridge seems suddenly still, as if everyone has taken one collective, deep breath. Calling on all his years of emotional repression, Spock smooths his expression into one of polite disinterest, and approaches the viewscreen. “Pardon me. I do not believe you and I are acquainted.” He comes shoulder-to-shoulder with the Captain.

Nero watches him with a cold patience, which, if James’ hypothesis is correct, he must have a lot of. Whatever he wants, the Romulan has been waiting for two decades. “No, we're not. Not yet. There's something I want you to see,” Nero says.

Pike glances at Spock, and he gives the slightest shake of his head. Nero’s gaze locks onto the Captain, and his lips twitch into the barest smirk. “Captain Pike, you will join me on The Narada for… negotiations.”

Pike raises an eyebrow. “Certainly. Perhaps you would be polite enough to reinstate our transporter functions, first.”

“I apologise, Captain,” Nero blinks. “But I’ve waited a long time for this moment, and I cannot allow you to interfere.” His eyes flick back to Spock, and Pike takes the smallest half-step in front of him. “Take a shuttle.”

“How do I know you won’t fire on it?”

“Captain, I assure you. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be- dead-” Nero’s eyes flick somewhere to the right, as if he’s just spotted something on a different screen readout. His eyes flash dangerously. “If I were you, I’d advise your underling not to input that sequence.”

Pike frowns. “What are you talking abo-?”

Spock turns to the communications panel sharply. “Ensign Hannity, stand down-!”

The panel overloads, and Hannity is thrown backwards by a high-pitched explosion. Chekhov yelps in surprise, and Uhura covers her mouth with her hands, as she sinks to the floor beside him.

Nero tuts loudly. “I did warn you.”

The screen goes blank. Uhura places her fingers to Hannity’s throat, moves, then tries the other side. She looks up desperately as Spock and Pike join her.

Pike crouches beside her. “How is he, Acting Lieutenant?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t find a pulse.” With shaking hands, she tries again.

“Contact medbay,” Pike says grimly, and Spock helps her to her feet. The main communications console was unaffected by the blast, and she pats Spock’s arm lightly before she lets go.

“It was a honeytrap,” Sulu mutters, looking down at the body. “They must have sensed him hacking their computer and put it there on purpose.

Pike rises. “I need to get to a shuttle,” he murmurs. He tears his gaze away from Hannity.

“He'll kill you, you know that,” James says behind them. Spock turns, and their eyes meet briefly. There’s a question in there somewhere, but Spock has no answers. He turns to Pike.

“Your survival is unlikely,” he says.

“Captain, we gain nothing by diplomacy.” James’ hand brushes Spock’s elbow as he moves past him. “Going over to that ship is a mistake.”

“I agree. You should re-think your strategy.”

Pike looks between them. “I understand that.” His mouth twitches, and he glances at the bridge at large. “I need officers who have been trained in advanced hand-to-hand combat.

Sulu stands. “I have training, sir.”

“Come with me.” He wheels on James. “Kirk, you too, you’re not supposed to be here anyway.” He nods to Spock, then glances back at towards the helm. “Chekov, you have the conn.”

“Aye, sir,” Chekhov straightens up, and Spock follows Pike. James and Sulu trail behind him.

*

The four of them pour into the turbolift, Spock and Pike nearest the doors, Sulu and Jim standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Engineering,” Pike says, as the lift begins moving.

Sulu meets Jim’s eyes. There are a thousand questions there, but he settles into a small, tight smile, and Jim returns it, trying desperately to hear anything over the pounding of his heart. The lift is deadly silent. Pike’s face is a mask, but Jim watches as he clenches and unclenches his hands. He stares at the doors in front of him with enough intensity to melt them. Spock, too, is staring at the wall, although his face is turned enough that he could make eye contact with Jim if he wanted. Jim exhales, and tries to get a read on Spock through their fledgling bond, but there’s nothing. He exhales.

Sulu’s eyes are on him. Jim turns, feels something brush his hand, and looks down. Slowly, enough that Jim can reject him if he wants to, Sulu tangles his fingers with his. His heartbeat calms a little. He returns the gesture, and they grasp hands until the turbolift doors open.

Pike strides towards the Chief Engineer. “Olsen, is everything ready?”

“Aye, sir,” Olsen says, as he loads three rucksacks into the shuttle. Parachutes, Jim realises. He inhales, and glances at Pike, who gives him a knowing look.

“That’s right,” his face twitches into a smile. “Without transporters, we can't beam off the ship. We can't assist Vulcan.” His eyes flick to Spock. “We can't do our job. Mister Kirk, Mister Sulu, you and Engineer Olson will space-jump from the shuttle. You will land on that machine they lowered into the atmosphere that's scrambling our gear. You'll get inside. Once you’ve disabled it, you can beam back to the ship. Mister Spock, I'm leaving you in command of the Enterprise.” Spock moves to protest, but Pike raises a hand. “The second communications are back up, contact Starfleet. Report what the hell's going on here. And...” His voice gets softer. “If all else fails, fall back. Rendezvous with the fleet in the Laurentian system. Kirk, I'm promoting you to first officer.”

“… What?” Jim says.

Spock opens his mouth, and looks between them. “Captain-”

“-I’m not the Captain, Spock. You are.” Pike takes a step towards the shuttle, but Jim catches him by the arm.

“Sir- after we knock out that drill- what happens to you?”

“Oh,” Pike’s mouth sets into a thin line. “I guess you'll have to come and get me.”

Jim shakes his head. “No, sir-”

Pike prises his hand off, and takes a step backwards, a false smile plastered across his face. “Careful with the ship, Spock. She's brand new.”

Spock nods. He looks at Jim, and straightens. “I-” he tilts his head. “I will monitor your progress from the bridge.”

Jim inclines his head, and smiles. “Thank you, Captain.”

Spock strides away.

Olsen straps his own parachute on, and talks them through where the release buttons are. He has a thick British accent, and looks to be in his mid-thirties. “Have either of you done a spacejump before?”

Sulu and Jim exchange a glance.

“Only in a controlled environment,” Sulu murmurs.

“Ah, it’s all the same,” Olsen says, settling down inside the shuttle.

“Except this time, they’ll be shooting at us,” Jim says.

“With real phasers,” Sulu adds.

“Boys,” Pike pinches the bridge of his nose. “Get in the shuttle, please.” They comply, and sit beside Olsen in a line. Pike sits beside the console, and presses a button. “Dispatch, how’re we looking?”

“Shuttle eight nine, USS Enterprise. You are cleared for launch.”

“Much obliged,” Pike grins. The bay doors open, and Pike begins to fly them out. His hands are steady on the controls, but Jim can see his foot tapping beneath the desk. He turns to Sulu.

“I never knew you were trained in combat- you don’t just mean sparring, right?”

“No,” Sulu smirks. “Fencing.”

“Fencing? Why did you learn-?”

“- We really don’t have time for this story,” Sulu nods to the viewscreen.

“He’s right,” Pike says. “Pre-jump!”

Jim puts his EV helmet on. “You’ll tell me later, right?”

“Survive this, and we’ll see,” Sulu says. He seals his helmet with a grimace.

The crewman from Engineering crackles over the comm planel. “You are clear from Enterprise airsp-” the sound cuts off the second they clear the bay. They get closer to The Narada’s device, and Jim starts. It’s a massive drill.

“It’s a mining ship,” he realises. “It’s not designed for combat.”

Sulu follows his gaze. “Those phasers more than make up for it,” he points. The phasers don’t align with the dark metal of The Narada. Some of them are a deep green, and others are scratched, but it is apparent that they were once chrome-white. His breath catches. The Kelvin.

Olsen gasps, clearly coming to the same conclusion. “Those aren’t Romulan weapons. Everything on that ship has been scavenged.”

Jim frowns. He begins to get the inklings of a plan. Then, something else occurs to him. He taps his helmet. “Will we be able to communicate with each other while we dive?”

Pike glances at him. “We’ll find out.” He slumps back against the chair, and turns his gaze to the underbelly of The Narada.

“Blocking all subspace communications from Vulcan takes a lot of energy,” Olsen explains. “With any luck, smaller forms should be able to fit through.” He grins. “Plus, I did a little poking around to give us a signal boost. Just try not to scream too loud,” he sobers, though his eyes still flash.

“That’s why the ship-wide communications still work on The Enterprise,” Jim says.

Pike nods, and glances to the left. He scowls “If only we still had ship-to-ship.”

Jim follows his gaze. The Farragut. “Do you think they’ll attack?”

“I hope not.” Pike breathes. “Like Sulu said; those are some mean-looking weapons.” He inhales, and checks their position. “We're approaching the drop zone. You have one shot to land on that platform.”

“Pull your ‘chute as late as possible,” Olsen advises.

Pike poises his hand over the lever which opens the shuttle’s hatch. “Three...”

Olsen stands closest to the chute, knees bent. “Let’s kick some Romulan arse.”

“Two.”

Sulu squeezes Jim’s shoulder, once, then lets go.

“One.”

The hatch opens. Olsen jumps first, followed by Sulu. There’s a yelp, and he flails for a moment, then relaxes, fanning his limbs out.

Jim’s breath catches. This was so much easier in training

“Kirk. Your window is closing.”

He nods, and pitches forwards, but still can’t make the jump. He’s never hesitated before, not once. Never failed a psych exam. And, with the exception of the Kobayashi Maru, always got full marks on the first try-

“Want me to push you?” Pike offers.

“No,” Jim closes his eyes, and feels a hand on his lower back. He braces himself. “Do it.”

“Good luck, kid.” One, swift push. Then, he plummets.

Jim swallows his scream, and opens his eyes. The surface of Vulcan is rushing towards him at exceptional speed. The first person to jump out of a plane was a trailblazer, but the first person to jump out of a spacecraft? They must have been insane-

“Jim. Jim! Fuck- you’re falling faster than me-” a hand catches his, and he’s dragging Sulu with him, falling too far, too fast, too hard- “James, relax!”

He does so, his training kicking in- better late than never- as he extends his left hand, and angles his body against the wind resistance. Below them, Olsen is in a controlled fall, and they’re gaining on him too fast, and he’s trying, but he can’t-

A wave of calm rushes through him. Spock, he thinks, and tries to get more of a gauge on the Vulcan’s emotions, as Sulu attempts to gather him closer, to slow their descent. He gasps, and mimics Sulu’s movements, lying spread-eagled on a blanket of nothing. The fall slows, and he exhales.

“Sorry.”

“I told you you took basic training too early,” Sulu says. “If we were-” the feed cuts out “-Earth normal gravity-” Jim focuses on Sulu’s lips- “I’d punch you in the arm right n-”

“You’re breaking up.”

“Y-” Sulu frowns. “- Too.”

“-oo close-” comes Olsen’s voice “- to drill.”

Jim grips Sulu tighter, and reaches desperately for Spock’s mind. Nothing. He holds his breath. The discomfort in his stomach is not only the result of the fall, although it doesn’t help.

“-eems fair-” a broken laugh from Olsen. “-ee of us-- ree- of them-”

Jim turns his attention to the platform, and sees three Romulans standing guard. In that instant, they point to Olsen, and ready their disruptor rifles.

There’s a series of broken, staccato beeps from Olsen’s channel. “’ee’ve- bin- spotted-” Olsen curls in on himself, tucking his legs out of the way as all three Romulans focus their fire on him.

He lets go of Sulu’s hand with a yelp, as a phaser beam grazes the side of his helmet.

“-mes!” Sulu is ripped in the other direction. “-l-sen, pull your-”

Jim flinches as a flash of blue lights up his vision, and forces himself to lay flat, despite the attack.

“Just-- ew more metr-s-!” Olsen says.

Jim glances down. Two of the Romulans have their phasers focused on Sulu now, so Olsen might make it, but he’s too close- too close- to the landing platform.

“OLSEN!” Jim yells, but he has no idea how much gets through. As Olsen reaches for the cord, a phaser bolt hits him in the arm-

A scream blows out Jim’s headset. He winces, his ears ringing

When he opens his eyes, Olsen is limp, his legs bent at an impossible angle. His body curves backwards, and he tumbles over the edge, a Romulan knife in his chest. He never had the chance to pull his chute.

The breath is ripped from him.

They’re over a desert planet, but Jim feels like he’s been drenched in icewater. Hyperventilating fills his ears, but it’s not his own. Sulu’s breathing stutters over the headset, and he inhales. “- im- pull your-” garbled static.

Jim snaps back to attention, tearing at the cord, as the fabric ripples out of his chute. He looks across. Still free-falling, Sulu careens to the left, and struggles to keep hold of his phaser. Jim fumbles with his own, and pulls it out. He tries to line up a shot, but his hands shake too much.

Sulu scrambles for the chord, and releases his parachute. He’s yanked swiftly upwards, and the Romulan phaser fire just misses his leg.

Jim grits his teeth, puts both hands on his phaser, and fires at the Romulans.

Nothing happens.

He blinks, pulls the phaser to eye level, and checks it. The dispersion must be too great over this distance, especially while he’s still accelerating, albeit not as fast as he was before. He’s lucky he wasn’t hit by his own phaser blast.

The Romulan takes aim at Sulu again, this time, aiming for the parachute. Jim grits his teeth, cranks the setting up to maximum, and fires at the Romulan.

The beam hits them, not as effective as it would be at closer range, but enough to stun them. They fall instantly, hitting the platform. The Romulan beside them looks up, spotting James for the first time, and moves to fire- and dodges Sulu’s shot at the last moment. They duck for cover, and Jim allows himself a sigh of relief-

He cries out, clutches his side. Sharp, burning pain. His pulse throbs louder in his ears, and he holds back a sob.

He hadn’t seen the third Romulan.

“JAMES!” Sulu screams.

Blindly, Jim raises his own phaser to counterattack, but- it’s gone. He dropped it. He chokes, and presses both hands to his side.

He collapses gracelessly onto the platform, parachute becoming a dead weight behind him. Two Romulans, he thinks, still clutching his side, and he resists the urge to curl up. Keep going. Need to…

“No, no no no...” Sulu says.

Jim breathes, and goes very still. His fingers twitch over the wound in his side, and he wants to tell Sulu he’s alright, but- he opens his eyes. Remembers Olsen. The release button-

His left hand slides to his chest, and finds it with a click. It releases. The harness slides off him, and, a moment later, the wind picks up the remains of his parachute and whisks it away. Thank you, Starfleet training. A second later, and he’d have been dragged off the edge like Olsen. He grunts, wanting nothing more than to curl in on himself and-

Focus.

Phaser fire. Metal on metal.

He forces himself to his feet, vision blurred, and blinks. Helmet. It got covered in dust when he landed. He tears it off, and it falls to the platform with a clatter. There’s an angry yell, and Jim looks up. Sulu hurls himself at the Romulan who killed Olsen. His helmet is off, and there’s a cylinder in is hand. The Romulan holds a long knife, curved, like a scimitar. Jim clutches his side, and breathes through the pain.

Sulu is armed with a lead pipe.

Jim takes a step towards him, and stumbles over something. He looks down. His phaser. He bends to pick it up-

And flattens himself across the floor on pure instinct.

A beam flies over his head.

He looks to the right. The second Romulan is crouching behind a pillar, the barrel of a disruptor pointed at him. His right hand trembles terribly, and he tries to aim for the weapon. If he can get a direct hit in the middle, he’ll overload the phaser.

He lowers his hand. He’ll never make the shot. He rolls, and cries out. Warmth grazes his back. He scrambles to his knees, and tears at the phaser dial. It snaps off in his hand, and begins to hum.

“Sulu,” he groans. The comms work here, in the eye of the storm, perhaps because the Romulans need to keep their own channels open. Sulu grunts, not taking his eye off his opponent. “Hold onto something,” Jim mutters.

“Hold-” Sulu feints, parries, and slams the pipe into the Romulan. “- Onto-” The alien barely staggers. “- What?!”

“Anything!” Jim tosses the phaser behind the pillar, and the Romulan catches it, a sneer on their face. They raise their weapon to Jim again, and he runs, heading for the controls in the centre of the panel. They fire, and he jumps the final few metres, landing on his left side. Crack. He skids, crashing into the base of the console, and curls around it. “Umfg.”

The squeal of the phaser intensifies. He closes his eyes.

The blast lights the inside of his eyelids red. He’s plastered against the pillar, ears ringing, and, finally, thrown free of it.

When he opens his eyes, the platform is empty. The Romulans are gone.

So is Sulu.

“Hikaru...” Jim gasps, getting to his feet. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He runs over, his body screaming in protest, numb to it. Numb to everything.

Laboured breathing in his earpiece.

A hand claws at the edge of the platform.

For the third time since injuring himself, Jim lands on his front. His left ribs throb. He gasps, pushes through a wave of dizziness, and thrusts his hand out.

Sulu curses, grabs his wrist blindly, as his fingers slip off the platform. The sudden drop yanks Jim forwards, and he cries out, digging his knees into the grooves of the platform. Sulu’s fingers are tight, too tight on his wrist, encircling him with a ferocity that shouldn’t be possible. He grits his teeth, and grabs hold of Sulu’s other arm with his left hand. His ribs complain beneath him as the pressure on his wrist intensifies, and, for a moment, he thinks he might pass out.

Spock , he thinks, weakly. He tightens his grip on Sulu, and crawls backwards, as fast as he dares. He makes pained noises as he drags his friend to safety, but focuses on that. Sulu, safety. Spock. Bones. Uhura. Gaila. Sulu, Sulu, Sulu-

With a sudden wrench, Sulu pulls himself over the side, and Jim’s wrist snaps. He howls, his hand twitching in Sulu’s grasp, and still, Sulu doesn’t let go. They collapse onto the platform, panting, and Sulu touches his back lightly. Jim shudders. It stings.

“Agh,” he manages, blinking tears from his eyes. He cradles his right hand in his left, and stares at the sky. Blue. A strange, familiar blue. Science officer.

“The drill,” he gasps. Sulu nods, and gets to his feet. He moves towards the control panel sluggishly. Too slow. Jim’s vision blurs. He places a hand to his temple. It doesn’t help. “Olsen had the charges.”

Sulu curses. “Any ideas?”

“Just one.” Jim’s eyes roll into his head, and he grits his teeth. “Still got a phaser?”

There’s a beep. “No,” Sulu mutters. “Anyway; last time you did that, we almost fell off the platform.” Beep. “Stay with me.”

Jim grunts. The beeps continue. Sulu must be trying every button. “Not dying,” he assures him, and coughs. “Try the red button.”

“There is no red button.”

“Oh.” A tremor runs through Jim. He tastes blood.

Sulu swears. “James.” With a loud crash, the hum of the drill stops. Jim’s eyes snap open. The control panel sparks. Sulu smiles weakly. “Your plan worked.”

“But you didn’t have a phaser.”

Sulu tosses something aside with a clang. “I improvised.” There’s a crackle as their comm units come to life.

“Kirk, Sulu. We’ve lost Olsen’s signal,” Chekhov says. “Is he with you?”

“No.” He sinks to his knees beside Jim, and places a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone.”

“I can beam you up now,” Chekhov says.

Sulu’s grip tightens on Jim’s shoulder. “Hurry,” he says. Jim looks up. A flash of red, some sort of missile, from The Narada. There’s a high-pitched hum, almost like a song, and a strange warmth around them. Sulu dissolves into yellow starlight. The bridge rematerialises first, and Jim leans into him, exhausted.

“They’ve launched something at the planet,” Sulu says. “Through the hole they drilled.”

“Captain, gravitational sensors are off the scale,” Chekhov’s voice raises a fraction. “If my calculations are correct, they're creating a singularity which will consume the planet.”

A spike of panic. Jim opens his eyes. Spock looks… stunned, but the emotion is otherwise undetectable on his face.

“They're creating a black hole at the centre of Vulcan?” Spock’s voice doesn’t quite break, but there’s a crack in the careful monotone.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long does the planet have?”

Chekhov scrolls through the readings. He looks lost. “Minutes, sir. Minutes.”

Spock stands. “Alert Vulcan command to signal a planet-wide evacuation.”

“Aye, sir; all channels, all frequencies,” Uhura says, opening them up.

They don’t have time, Jim thinks. He looks across at the helm. A dark-haired woman has taken his place, and Jim recognises her from the academy. Freija Sumter. She graduated in his first year, and, like Spock, remained grounded while The Enterprise was finalised. The rest of the fleet’s not much better. They lost so much to skirmishes with the Klingons that there are nearly no experienced officers left. Is this all they’ve got? Jim looks at Chekhov. He doesn’t know how young the cadet is, but he must be in first year.

“Maintain standard orbit.” Spock approaches the transporter pad.

“Yes, sir,” says Sumter. She glances at Chekhov’s screen, and purses her lips.

Uhura rises, but her hands are still on the console, moving swiftly. It’s almost another language in itself. “Where are you going?”

“To evacuate the Vulcan High Council. They are tasked with protecting our cultural history.” His voice softens. “My parents will be among them.”

Now, Uhura does unhand the controls. “Can't you beam them out?” She takes a half-step forwards.

“It is impossible. They will be in the katric ark, underground. I must get them myself.” Sulu places a hand on Jim’s right side. It’s just about the only part of hnois torso which isn’t damaged. Spock climbs onto the pad. “Chekov, you have the conn.”

The moment Sulu tries to move him, Jim looks up. “You can’t go down there,” he whispers.

Spock grasps his forearm firmly, and lifts both he and Sulu to their feet. “Clear the pad,” he says, without looking at Jim. Sulu pulls him back. “Take him to medibay, lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.” Sulu pulls him away from the platform. “James-”

“No-” Jim shrugs Sulu off, and runs forwards to- what? Pull Spock away? Stop him, somehow? Join him?

He never finds out. Sulu restrains him easily. Jim curses, attempts to wriggle from his grasp-

And Spock disappears.

Chapter Text

Firelight flickers at the edge of Amanda’s vision, painting the walls of the cave blood red. The rock is darker here, darker and darker the deeper they go, but they keep moving. Nineteen Vulcans, and herself.

Sarek brings up the back of the group, not-quite glancing at her every few paces. He can feel her through their bond, yet still needs to reassure himself that she’s there. ‘It’s OK, she thinks. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.’

He blinks, and looks ahead again.

One hour ago, the cause of the communications’ blackout became abundantly clear, as a large ship loomed into view over the planet. If this was Earth, perhaps, the planet's counter-attack measures would already be active, but this is not Earth.

There was a time when the peaceful nature of Vulcans made her feel safe. Today, she feels nothing but terror.

Something overhead bursts into life, like a lightbulb exploding at the edge of her vision. Flash-in-the-pan, a pale, pastel blue. To her knowledge, Vulcans rarely experience their telepathy as synaesthesia, but since bonding with Sarek, it is all she’s ever known. She can’t explain why Spock’s always been pale blue to her, but even before he was born, when she felt the first stirrings of his tiny mind, that is what he’s been.

She glances at Sarek. He’s perhaps a little more straight-backed than usual, but otherwise unresponsive.

‘Sarek. Our son is here.’ He says nothing. Moves through the passages with more purpose. ‘Talk to him.’

He glances at her. Dark eyes glinting in the light of the braziers. ‘Parental bonds are not as strong as marriage bonds. We could not communicate.’

That wasn’t quite what Amanda meant, and she suspects he knows. Still, she changes tact. ‘But if we concentrated together-’

‘Perhaps.’ He slows, just enough to take her hand, and she feels the rush of the thoughts he saw fit to shield from her. He would never admit it, but he’s scared. She squeezes his hand, and thinks calming thoughts. He raises an eyebrow at her, and settles into a thin smile. A scowl, by human standards, but warm for him. She smiles back, and his face settles back into one of stony determination. ‘Spock.’ He concentrates on the ship, and she focuses, stumbling over a rock as she does so.

The first time Spock ran away to the mountains as a child, he was eight. As worried as Amanda was, Sarek was the first out of the door, his eyes stormy.

“Though it is logical to assume that a child of his height will not get very far alone, the sooner we pursue him-”

“The sooner we find him?” Amanda says. She brushes his hand with her own, lightly, as they begin the walk. Sarek nods, grimly, and Amanda smiles. “He survived his Kahs-wan last year,” she points out. “Most Vulcan children are fine to wander alone at this age-”

“He is not fully Vulcan,” Sarek reasons.

When they find Spock- completely fine, of course, I-chaya the sehlat at his side, Sarek is the first to chide him. “Your mother was worried for you,” he says, stiffly.

Amanda only shakes her head, smiling lightly.

She’s pulled from the strange tangle of reminiscing by Sarek, eyebrow-raised, head tilted, and looking so much like their son she almost does a double-take.

‘Did it work?’

‘We shall find out,’ Sarek brushes fingers with her, a partial ozh’esta, and she feels the usual, reassuring warmth. Tingles of electricity.

In front of them, the Vulcan elders stop walking.

He relinquishes his grip on her hand, but continues to stand close to her, angling himself ever so slightly towards her. They close the gap in the circle, the twenty of them surrounding what can only be described as a fissure in the rocks. She’s been here only once before, at the ascension of Solkar, when the katra of Sarek’s grandfather was confined to the cradle.

“T’Rene is absent. The Lady Amanda will take her place,” one of the elders says.

“As the only other member present, it is… logical,” Serenk purses his lips. “Has she been made aware of the responsibilities of the transfer?”

“Yes,” Sarek lifts his chin.

“Very well. We shall begin.”

It speaks to the pressing need of the situation that the elders don’t protest the participation of a non-Vulcan in the ritual.

They move closer to the arc, standing within the confines of a cluster of stalactites. With a loud rumble, the rock above and below them parts, and there’s a sudden change in air pressure. It’s not enough that it could be described as wind, but there’s a gentle updraft, like a sigh being released from the ground. Unlike before, where the arc was flowing one-way only, something compels Amanda to reach out. She does so, as do the Vulcans around her, and she exchanges a glance with Sarek.

Solkar. She has no idea why his katra decided to seek her out. Perhaps he recognised her as a family member, or perhaps it was because she was thinking of him at the moment the arc opened up. His essence is a deep, strong blue; deeper than the oceans back home, an almost unnaturally deep colour for the planet, and, as his katra wends into her mind, she gets a glimpse of the reason why.

Sol. Terra. A planet which is impossibly blue; almost the opposite of Vulcan. The species here has demonstrated its warp capability, and, therefore, they have been authorised by Vulcan command to make first contact. As Zefram shakes hands with the human, he contemplates just how literal the term is. Contact. Direct hand-to-hand contact is closely guarded on Vulcan, but humans use it casually, as a greeting. Perhaps not casually. There’s something ritualistic in the slow, careful deliberation with which Zefram offers his hand. Later, Solkar will wonder if it was nervousness, but it feels as if Zefram is somehow aware of the intimacy it entails to his kind. Humans are largely psi-null, but there’s something electric when their hands meet. Not a meeting of minds, but of souls. Compatible souls. An impossible word; for two beings who have only just met, but Solkar knows it as clearly as he knows his own name. T’hy’la.

Amanda blinks, and resurfaces. She can still feel Solkar there, in the back of her mind, the sum of his knowledge and experience crammed in with hers. It’s not quite the same as a mind-meld; nothing ever is, with Solkar. Sarek may have been the first Vulcan to marry a human, but he definitely wasn’t the first to make one his companion. Or- she feels a twinge of amusement- more accurately: Solkar was companion to Zefram. She purses her lips, and sticks her hand into the arc again, while Solkar continues his intermittent reminiscing.

Something- someone, citrus orange- slips into her mind. A gentle presence who doesn’t make themselves known, beyond the smallest whisper. She doesn’t press for answers or hints to their identity, and, just as quickly as they came, there’s another katra, then another. Colours flash and fade in front of her vision, and she can’t be sure how many Vulcans she’s carrying, how many lives and memories now depend on her. She glimpses flashes of emotion, fleeting moments of happiness and sorrow and grief, entire lifetimes compacted into one, indistinct ball. She glances at Sarek. Her husband is in deep concentration, but he looks somewhat stunned. The vulcan elders do, too.

As her awareness of the katric arc grows, so, too, does her awareness of the spaceship overhead- and some of the people on it. She frowns. Pale blue, soft lilac, a sharp, clear yellow: almost gold. She knows her son; she knows their family: most of them are pale, pastels, with the exception of T’Pau. T’Pau is a bright, fearsome red. She blinks at Sarek, but if he senses their son’s new companions, he says nothing. He, unlike her, appears to be entirely focused on the task at hand, and she turns back to the swirl of thoughts, lives, colours, and whispering voices-

A strong, deep violet. She doesn’t realise who it is, until-

Surak. His memories aren’t as vivid as Solkar’s, less flamboyant, more controlled, but there are glimpses. War. Kal-if-fee. Pre-reform Vulcan. A cave with a low, sparkling pool of water. Meditation. Disgrace. Fear. Emotional control. Through it all, a deep love-

She’s ripped back to the present. A familiar presence, just behind her. She turns. Dressed in the deep blue of a science officer-

“Spock?” She steps away from the arc, as a wave of dizziness threatens to overcome her.

Spock glances around the circle of elders. “The planet has only seconds left. We must evacuate.” Sarek looks at him for the first time, and Spock looks away sharply. Amanda stumbles, and Spock’s at her side in an instant. “Mother, now!” He takes her arm, and she feels flashes of his feelings. Shame for his emotionalism. She frowns, as the Vulcans in her head crowd round, muttering their disappointments, and swats them away.

‘Why did you choose me, if you hate emotions so?’

‘You misunderstand,’ says the citrus Vulcan. T’Prena. ‘We welcome emotion, but we cannot allow them to dictate our actions.’

‘But Spock is behaving rationally, despite his emotions.’ A thought occurs to her. ‘Isn’t shame an emotion, too?’

‘Yes,’ T’Prena says. ‘That is why we find it distasteful.’

They begin the walk back, although it’s more of a run. If the first journey to the katric arc seemed long, this takes an eternity. The mountain is breaking apart around them, as the ceiling of the catacombs crumbles. If Spock hadn’t called them away when he had, they would almost certainly have perished.

‘Why did you choose me, Surak? Was it by chance?’

‘Infinite Diversity In Infinite Combinations,’ Surak says, as if it should be obvious.

‘So- you chose me because of my differences?’

‘Our differences make us greater than the sum of our parts,’ Surak continues, cryptically.

‘You mean Spock?’

Surak is silent, which- in Vulcans- generally indicates they’ve lost the argument. Despite everything, she smirks to herself a little, and feels the weaponised disapproval of all the katras she carries, with the exception, perhaps, of Solkar.

‘He has always had a soft spot for human irrationality,’ says T'Prena, with distaste.

They emerge into sunlight, though the air feels oppressively warm after the depths of the cave.

‘The rock we are standing on is experiencing a lot of stress,’ Surak says. ‘From the size of the fractures which are already forming, it is likely that the ground will give way in twenty seconds.’

‘You should move out of the way,’ Solkar translates.

‘There is no time. It is likely that all of us on this rock will perish,’ says T'Prena.

‘I won’t let that happen,’ Amanda thinks.

‘You cannot prevent it,’ Surak says. ‘Logically-’

‘Damn your logic! If the group spreads out more, it’ll reduce the strain on this part of the mountain, correct?’

‘Perhaps,’ Solkar says. ‘Though, I believe the main cause of the breakdown is the planet-destroying superweapon which has been deployed from the alien spacesh-’

‘- Alright, that’s enough of that!’ Amanda grips Spock’s arm tighter, and takes a step away from the rest of the group. He frowns at her, and covers her hand with his own.

“Beam us up,” he says into his communicator.

The mountain shakes more violently, and one of the Vulcan elders slips a little. Each of them looks about as disoriented as she feels; they’re probably experiencing similar logical battles with their determined ghosts.

“Locking onto you,” a Russian voice replies over Spock’s communicator. “Don't move. Stay right where you are.”

‘Transport will take fifteen seconds,’ Solkar says. ‘This section of rock will collapse in twelve.’

‘And if you move, they will lose their transporter lock on the group.’ Solkar reasons. ‘Reestablishing the connection will take only seconds, but the rest of the rock is likely to follow, and I estimate. If we stand still, fewer of us will die.’

‘Is it-?’ Amanda exhales. ‘I’m going to die,’ she realises.

Sarek looks at her sharply, eyes wide, doubtless having made the same calculations, and, as such, finding himself incapable of making a single move towards her.

‘It is uncertain,’ Surak says.

‘But in all probability, yes’. Solkar says.

‘And you’re OK with this?’

‘It is of no consequence. Our deaths will give the katras stored in the Vulcan elders the a greater chance of survival,’ Surak says.

‘Surak,’ Solkar chides, but Amanda cuts across him.

‘You’re- Surak! You’re the father of Vulcan society, they can’t lose you-’

‘We thank you for your attempt,’ Surak says. ‘But my teachings are already written down. It is doubtful they could learn any more from my katra.’

‘You’ll die.’

‘I am already dead.’

She shudders. ‘There’s got to be a way. The planet is imploding. Spock- all Vulcans- are going to lose so much today. They can’t lose you, too.’

‘It is illogical to assign more value to our lives based on our achievements. No individual can be worth such sacrifice. The needs of the many outweigh the nee-’

‘- I absorbed your katras to ‘preserve the essence of Vulcan culture’,’ she protests. ‘What’s the likelihood that my son will survive?’

‘Once you accept the inevitability of your demise, his odds rise to 76.3%,’ Solkar says.

She exhales. Not perfect odds, but Spock’s odds have never been perfect. He has always had to make do. ‘Can I pass you onto him? The knowledge I absorbed; the katras?’

‘The transfer will have to be excessively fast-’

‘Yes! So let’s not waste time!’

‘Very well. It is possible.’

‘Tell me how.’

‘Take his hand. We will do the rest.’

She tightens her grip around Spock’s hand, as the group begins to glow. The transporter beam with only a three-quarter’s chance at saving him. ‘Will it hurt him?’

‘Yes,’ Solkar admits.

“Transport in five,” the Russian voice says. There’s a smattering of rockfall, and Spock’s eyes widen. He may not have a head full of Vulcans to do the calculations for him, but he is still Vulcan, and he must know what she’s planning.

‘Do not do this-’

‘There’s no other choice.’ She stares into his eyes. ‘I love you. I love you so much, Spock.’

“Four.”

Spock tilts his head ever so slightly, lips parted as if to ask a question. Then, he winces in pain, and Amanda’s vision blacks out, but she can still see all these colours in her mind- deep blue, bright, ostentatious pink, jade, emerald, orange, magenta, yellow, violet- until all she’s left with is pastel blue.

“Three.”

At the sudden influx of katras, Spock twitches, and lets go of her hand for an instant. Just long enough, she thinks, that that 76.3% chance may rise, just a fraction.

“Two.”

‘Goodbye, Sarek,’ she thinks, as, the ground gives way beneath her. She shrieks, scrabbles for a hold on the rock, and Spock’s hand is outstretched, and he’s yelling, and all she can think is seventy six point three, seventy six point three, one second, one, precious second, as they’re beamed away to safety and she falls, falls, falls.

Chapter Text

“I’m losing one!” Chekhov says, pressing buttons frantically. Uhura holds her breath, and hopes against hope that he succeeds. Let Spock be safe, she thinks.

Indistinct yellow outlines begin to materialise, and Uhura stands up. Please. She stares at the transporter controls, and winces.

“No...” Chekhov whispers. “I lost one.”

The Vulcans beam onto the transporter pad, and she searches desperately for-

A blue shirt. She breathes a sigh of relief, but when she takes a closer look, Spock’s arm is outstretched, still reaching for- Uhura’s heart clenches, and she scans the rest of the group.

Vulcan elders. She recognises Spock’s father, but when she looks, she can’t see-

Amanda.

Spock looks lost, empty. His eyes are searching for something, and their gazes meet, but he stares right through her.

When the planet collapses in on itself, it’s not quite an implosion. They watch it on the viewscreen in frozen horror.

Kirk and Sulu haven’t moved in the last five minutes; the two of them are still crouched on the floor near the transporter pad. Kirk is the first to speak.

“The Farragut,” he croaks. “Uhura.”

She turns, and sees the starship crossing- the space that used to be Vulcan. From its position and stance, it’s clear what they’re planning. Her hands move of their own accord, three years of Starfleet training replacing the need for conscious thought. She tunes into their frequency. “Farragut, this is the USS Enterprise. Do not engage, repeat, do not engage.”

“We’ve just got our transporter and weapons capabilities back-”

“Tell your captain to disengage-!” She covers her mouth in horror.

A missile barrels into the side of the ship, and The Farragut explodes.

The Narada warps away.

They all stand there in stunned silence.

Gaila, Uhura thinks, as she keeps her eyes fixed on the viewscreen. The Farragut dispatched a few escape pods, and she feels a flare of hope, but it fades quickly. There can be no more than thirty. She hears a strange sound behind her, and turns. Kirk is shaking in Sulu’s arms, his face pale and drawn.

“James.” Sulu tugs his arm. “We need to get you to medbay.”

Kirk shakes his head.

“Come on.”

Uhura stands up before she knows what she’s doing. There are two turbolifts, one on either side of the bridge, and she sees Spock headed for the one on the left. Quick, long-legged strides. He’ll get there before her.

She turns back to Kirk. “There were escape pods,” she says, breathlessly. “The other starships will pick them up.”

Jim goes still, and allows Sulu to tug him towards the turbolift.

“I’ll tell you if any of them get in contact,” Uhura whispers.

Kirk nods, and sags against Sulu as he pulls him into the turbolift. Uhura takes a step towards the other lift.

The doors are closing.

She runs for Spock.

They don’t speak. She reaches out, and stops the turbolift. He doesn’t stop her. A pair of eyes. Dark, endless. The kind of eyes you can get lost in. She grabs the back of his hands, and traces patterns into the smooth skin. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the touch, and she abandons all worry, all uncertainty, all fear. She traces his knuckles.

The back of the hand.

I f you’re trapped in a burning room, and there’s a fire next door, you place the back of your hand against it to check for heat; never the palm. So you don’t get burned.

She goes so still, she can hear her own heartbeat.

Bump bump. Bump bump. Bump bump.

She breathes, and notices he’s breathing in time with her. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. It’s meditative, grounding him to something outside himself.

His eyelashes flutter.

“Hey,” she whispers. She runs her fingers along the backs of his, fanning her hand out and just brushing the gaps between them. It’s pushing it, perhaps. There’s not even a reason to continue pretending, she realises. Vulcan is gone. His mother is-

She pushes herself up on her tiptoes, and nudges her nose against his cheek. “What do you need?” She murmurs. Give the word and I’ll stop. This will all stop. She doesn’t know how to help Spock as a friend. She couldn’t possibly help him like this. And yet, he closes his hand around hers, and their fingertips brush. The strange tingling from before is less noticeable now. More familiar.

“I need everyone… On the ship,” he breathes, “To continue performing admirably.”

And that’s it. He starts the turbolift again, and steps out.

She can’t help him. He’s in pain, and she can’t help him.

*

Uhura steps into communications, and finds Peter Grenson hunched over his station, crying.

“Grenson?” She places a hand on his shoulder, and peers at his screen. The readout shows the information from a Vulcan shuttle they’ve picked up, the names of survivors, locations. Teardrops fall onto the console. “You shouldn’t work like this,” she murmurs.

“Who else is gonna do it?” He mutters, as he scrubs a hand across his eyes. “You were with Hannity when he died?”

“Yes,” she says. “Did you know him well?”

He nods. “He always sent me a copy of his PADD notes.” He smiles. “We used to hang out in the cafeteria after class.” He stands up, and fixes Uhura with a watery gaze. “Was he in much pain?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask in medbay-”

“Please. I just want to know.” He looks down. “You were there.”

She inhales. “It was quick. I don’t think-” she looks at his face. “He didn’t feel a thing.”

There’s a pause. Grenson takes a shaky breath.

“Thank you,” he says, tearfully.

“Maybe you should take a break for a while. The rest of the team can handle your duties. I’ll clear it with Reve-”

“No! I need to-” he shakes, visibly. “I need to keep working. Keep my mind off it.”

She pats his shoulder again. “Alright, ensign. Keep an eye on all subspace frequencies for me.”

He straightens. “Sir.”

The corners of her mouth twitch up in a smile, but, the second she turns away, his face falls. Then, she leaves communications, Hannity’s pained screams still ringing in her ears.

Chapter Text

“Hikaru. Go back to the bridge,” Jim murmurs. “They need you.”

Sulu pats his shoulder. “You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

“Hey.” Jim gives an unconvincing smile. “Don’t worry about me. Bones is here somewhere. And loads of doctors.” He nods to the attending physician, who gives him a tight smile. He has dark skin, and he’s dressed in Vulcan, not Starfleet, medical robes. Jim can’t help but glance at his ears, but they’re distinctly round.

“Oh, I’m not a doctor yet. At least,” the man says. “Not by Starfleet standards.”

Sulu glances to the man, not much older than themselves, then back at James. “Alright. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of-?”

“Geoffrey M’Benga,” the man inclines his head, and Jim’s stomach flutters a little. Sulu gives him a knowing glance, and moves to leave the medbay before Jim can glare at him. He turns back to M’Benga.

“James T. Kirk,”

“Alright.” His eyes widen as he looks at him. Jim figures he probably looks like death. “Let’s see what’s most pressing, so you can not-die.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Jim murmurs, and sits very still.

M’Benga runs a tricorder over him, and checks it. “Phew. I’ve spent the past year working almost exclusively on Vulcan physiology, but I’m sure I can work out what to do with a phaser burn.” He spies the look on Jim’s face, and grins. “I’m kidding.” He grabs a dermal regenerator. “Lift your shirt.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to remove it?” Jim asks, looking at the charred remains of his undershirt and telling himself he has no ulterior motive.

“It would,” M’Benga admits. “Like I said. I'm used to Vulcans.”

“I’m sure you could make them see the logic of undressing for you.” Jim pulls his shirt over his head, and finally sees his torso. The wide burn on his side, stretching out of sight around the back. The rainbow-mottling of bruises. His breath hitches, and he twists a little, trying to catch sight of his back.

“It’s okay,” M’Benga says, quickly. “Nothing we can’t fix.”

Jim makes a small noise, and rocks back and forth a little. M’Benga places a hand on his upper arm and gently lifts it out of the way. “You’ve got broken ribs,” he taps the tricorder. “But I need to fix the burns first, or the bone-knitter will break your skin. I could sedate you-”

“No. I need to get back to the bridge.”

M’Benga sets his jaw, and nods. “Then this is going to sting a little.”

Jim bites his lip. “Do it.”

M’Benga runs the regenerator over him, and Jim can only describe it as reverse-burning. It’s not quite hot, not quite cold, but more painful than any other regenerator fix he’s ever had before. He winces.

“How do your ribs feel?”

“A little better now the burn’s gone.”

“I may as well do the bruises while I’m here.

“It is a priority to make me pretty,” Jim’s leg bounces.

M’Benga raises an eyebrow- perhaps an expression he picked up on Vulcan- and stills his leg. “Steady.” He fixes Jim’s bruises.

“You’re not going to argue I should rest?”

“Oh, you should,” M’Benga says. “But, a planet’s been destroyed.” His hand wobbles slightly, and he clicks the knitter off. “Shit. Sorry.” He gives him a shaky smile. “I don’t think I could rest, either.”

“You were on Vulcan when-?”

“Yes.” His fingers twitch around the instrument, but he doesn’t say anything. “They put us on a shuttle. Evacuated the Earth embassy. Seventy-five of us crammed in, at max capacity. I never thought of the embassy as overcrowded until then.

Jim closes his eyes. “I can imagine… Better than you think.”

“There wasn’t enough time- weren’t enough shuttles for the whole planet.” M’Benga says. “How do you evacuate a whole planet?” He shakes his head. “Even with transporters...” He clicks the knitter on, works on Jim’s second rib, and inhales shakily. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Not everyone in the embassy was a human, but most people on my shuttle weren’t Vulcan.” The cold moves around to Jim’s side, and he flinches. M’Benga places a hand on his shoulder, and keeps moving the knitter. “In the middle of a crisis, we were still their first priority. There are less Vulcans, because I...” He closes his eyes. “There are so few of them now, and I can’t help thinking, I should have stayed.”

“You should have been on Earth.” Jim breathes shallowly, and he can actually feel his rib reforming.

“But I was doing my residency on Vulcan. I agreed to the risk-”

“We can’t think like that,” Jim says. “When faced with disaster- we can’t decide who deserves to survive. We shouldn’t decide. We should-” he winces “- try to save everyone.”

“But the Vulcans knew they couldn’t save me. I just… Can’t imagine the logical thought process that lead to it.”

Jim shivers as he moves onto the next rib. “OK. Let’s review. You’re a doctor-”

“- junior Doctor.”

“- You’re in the best position to help other people, though, right? Saving you doesn’t just represent one life. It represents all the lives you’ll go on to save.”

“Yes. But there were Vulcan doctors… Nurses.

Jim closes his eyes.

“You’re forgetting something. If you were in charge of arranging the shuttles, who would you put on there?”

“Well-”

“Everyone, right?”

M’Benga laughs softly. “Yes.”

“Right.” Jim looks at him. “Everyone else.”

M’Benga watches him with curious eyes.

He places the knitter on the side. “I’ll get someone else to finish this,” he says, his voice tight.

Nurse Chapel looms over him.

“You again?” She takes his hand firmly. “Now, why am I not surprised?” Jim hisses as she unfurls his fingers, and she pats the bed. “Lie down. You’re not going anywhere,” she murmurs.

“Only if you promise not to sedate me.”

“I promise,” she coos. “Though, you should know, a medical officer’s promises aren’t worth a thing.”

“What about the hypocratic oath?” Jim asks.

She gives him a wicked grin. “Nurses don’t have to take that.” She sticks him in the hand with a hypo, and he grimaces.

“Traitor.” He rubs his hand.

“That was just a mild painkiller. It only lasts for five minutes, so we need to act fast.” She drops the hypo, and reaches for the bone-knitter. She leans in conspirationally. “We only sedate the patients who talk too much.” He keeps quiet as she sets his forefinger. “One full minute of silence,” she comments, as she begins to work on his middle finger. “That must be a record for you.”

He manages a small smile, and opens his mouth to retort, as a whistle comes over the intercom.

“Ship-wide announcement, Acting Captain Spock.”

Chapel’s eyes wander to the ceiling, and Jim leans forward a little.

“Following Pike’s last orders to us, we are going to rendezvous with the fleet in The Laurentian system once we have finished picking up survivors from Vulcan. While the essence of our culture has been saved in the elders who now reside upon the ship, I estimate no more than ten thousand have survived. We have had no word from Captain Pike. I have therefore classified him a hostage of the war criminal known as Nero. Nero, who has destroyed my home planet... and most of its six billion inhabitants. I am now a member of an endangered species.”

The announcement is perhaps more emotional than you’d expect from a Vulcan, and Jim feels a strange sort of dizziness which he’s fairly sure didn’t originate with his injuries.

“I heard Pike made you first officer,” Chapel says, breaking the silence.

“’Heard’, or read on the medi-computer?”

“Oh, a bit of both.” He smirks, and she raises her eyebrows. “What?” She lifts her chin. “Gossip makes me better at my job.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jim says. “You’re not part-Vulcan, are you?” His smile fades.

“Your fingers are fixed,” Chapel says, after a moment. “Could you flex them for me?”

He wiggles his fingers sluggishly, and she runs a tricorder over his hand again. “Really, Kirk?” She sighs. “You’ve dislocated your wrist.”

He lifts his arm, and squints at it. Now that he thinks of it, it does look a bit out of joint. Not as bad as it could be- he’s not in t-rex territory yet- but a dull ache is returning to his hand. Still, it’s nowhere near as much pain as he was in only fifteen minutes ago, so he’s grateful.

“Here.” She hands him a medical robe. “Cover yourself up.”

“Why?” Jim puffs out his chest. Are you intimidated by my-?” She throws the soft fabric over his head with a flourish, and he pokes his head through the top indignantly. “You are!”

“Infant.” She glances at the empty hypo, and goes to fetch another.

“Oh, and you’re, what, twenty-two?” He shouts after her.

“- Stop harrassing my medical staff and put your poncho on,” says a grouchy southern accent. Jim turns to it. “Bones?!”

Bones looks about as exhausted as Jim feels, but his face lights up when he sees Jim. He quashes it, and watches Jim sternly until he pulls his arms through the sleeves.

“I’m only going to put a different shirt on in a moment anywa-” Bones pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, living up to his nickname.

Jim yelps, and tries to pass it off as a laugh. “Careful,” he wheezes. “They only just repaired those.” He pats his ribs, and the grip relents somewhat. He returns the hug with his left arm, careful to keep his damaged hand on his lap, very still. He rests his head on Bones’ shoulder, and listens to the steady thrum of his heart. Lets it drown out his awareness of the bustle of medibay. The murmuring, the shouting, the crying. For just a moment, he allows himself to imagine that they’re back in their dorm at the academy. Bones, comforting him after another nightmare.

No dead planet. No genocide. Just another bad memory.

He exhales. “Are CMO’s supposed to hug their patients?”

“My medbay, my rules.” He pulls away gently. “Let’s see.” He runs a tricorder over the newly-healed burn marks and scowls. “If that suit wasn’t made to withstand high temperatures, you’d be dead.” He kicks at the discarded EV suit.

“Why?”

“Romulan disruptors have no ‘stun’ setting.” McCoy moves the tricorder to the right, and grunts. “They fixed three broken ribs, two burns, a bruised spleen, but they missed the dislocated hand-?”

“No, we didn’t.” Christine hands him a hypo, and Bones has the grace to look embarrassed as she walks away. She doesn’t go far, only to the next bed along.

“My spleen was what?” Jim asks.

Bones ignores him, and his fingers graze over his wrist, feather-light.

“How do you fix it?”

“Like this.” He pushes down, hard. Jim yelps, and his joints snap back into position.

“SON OF A-”

“- There.”

“That’s what the hypo was for,” Christine, calls over, helpfully. She’s using a dermal regenerator on one of the Vulcans who beamed aboard with Spock.

Bones glances at the hypo, and fusses over Jim with a tricorder. “He’s got enough drugs in his system already.”

Jim rubs away the last of the pins and needles. “… Thanks.”

“How are you feeling?” Bones asks.

“I dunno.” He taps the side of his head. “Spock. His planet…”

“I know,” Bones says softly. “Just take it easy.”

Jim shakes his head. “I need to get to the bridge.”

“Like hell you do.”

“- Do you want a repeat of earlier? Because we know I can outrun you,”

Bones glares at him, and glances at a hypo pointedly. Jim shuts his mouth.

Chapter Text

Gaila leans against something hard. Exhaustion. The kind of aching exhaustion which weighs down her eyelids. Keeps her feet glued to the ground. Body in an escape capsule, merely a body, barely awake. Barely alive-

“Gaila?”

The voice is familiar. His presence is, too. A hand on her shoulder; the presence intensifies.

“Gaila!”

He doesn’t quite shake her. It’s more like- electricity. Some of his strength passing to her. Her eyes snap open, and she smiles, sleepily.

“Gary.” She reaches for him, but her arm won’t respond.

“It’s going- to be okay,” he stammers. Shirt torn, patches of yellow.

“You’re bleeding.”

He blinks. “It’s not my blood.” She looks again. The hem of his shirt, torn up. “I had to make bandages.”

Yes, she thinks. Gary’s blood is red. Mine is... Her eyes drift to her right arm. “Oh.”

Gary is crying, she realises. She moves her left arm, successfully, this time. Green skin meets porcelain. She finds Earth men fascinating, not just because of their wide range of pigmentation, but because they’re so different from Orion men. She brushes Gary’s tears away, but more fill their place.

She’s never seen an Orion man cry.

“Gary...” She blinks, and suddenly, he’s holding her. Arms around her back, clinging to her like he daren’t let go. “Gary-”

“You fell unconscious. Stay with me.”

And she wants to. But she’s just… So tired. A little nap can’t hurt-

“Please.” A hand cups her chin. Her face is wet, she realises, from his.

“Why so sad, darling?” She whispers. She traces her thumb across his mouth. A fine mouth, she thinks. Rose buds. Her thumb is the stem. She tugs his bottom lip gently, and they part. More pink inside- Gary is so pink. No one on Orion is pink. Or red. Her skin is lighter than most Orions’, a pale, almost lime green, altough they don’t have limes on Orion. Her hair, coiled, a brittle red- not the standard black. Straight, black hair. She runs her fingers through Gary’s, the one familiar aspect of his features.

“You were hit in the arm,” Gary says. She knows, distantly, that it must be true, but she can’t feel any pain. It’s not a numbness. It’s like-

“Had to get you to an escape pod. C-deck...” He says.

A flash of an explosion. She sees herself, sprawled over a console. Stand-in navigation officer. No word from the bridge.

“But the blood loss has stopped?” She whispers, as a little feeling returns to her arm.

“Yes,” he swallows, thickly. “It’s stopped.”

She taps him on the nose. That’s pink, too. “Then why are you still crying?” She giggles.

“I don’t know,” he sniffles. She leans closer to him.

The first human she ever saw cry was James Kirk.

“You’re not enjoying this,” she rolls off Jim, and he doesn’t protest. He blinks a little, and she lies on her side, watching the awareness return to his eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, eventually. He watches her again. Piercing blue eyes, with an intensity that almost hurts, but she doesn’t look away. He seems to be searching for something in hers, but she has no idea if he finds it. “How did you know?” He says at last.

She brushes his bare feet with hers. “I knew.” Orions are supposed to be irresistible to men, but Gaila has seen the effects of her biology on other people. Aliens, like Jim. No Orions, not anymore. The realisation that other species can be gentle was eye-opening.

Jim shakes. This, she has seen before. He moves to get off the bed, but, once he’s half-dressed, she places a hand on the small of his back. He freezes. “Stay,” she whispers.

“What?” His lip quivers, and she stares at it.

“Stay,” she repeats. “Just… lie with me for a while.” He sways slightly, and struggles to pull his shirt on. The sleeve is inside-out. “Here.” She tugs it the right way, and guides his hand through. He jerks away, breathing heavily, and stumbles to the door.

“If you don’t mind strangers seeing you cry, why don’t you want to do it in front of me?”

He wipes his eyes furiously. “I’m not going to cry in the corridor. I'm going home.'

“James.”

He clutches his forehead, and falls heavily on the bed. His chest heaves. Small, pained gasps. Gaila re-buttons his shirt with careful deliberation, much slower than she initially unfastened them. She rests her chin on his shoulder, and smiles against his pale skin. He shivers.

“Lie back down." When she slips her bath robe on, he relaxes slightly, and nods.

They lie beside each other, not-quite touching, despite the too-small space. His breath on her cheek.

“Maybe next time we meet up, we should actually study for programming together,” she suggests.

He smiles, and sort-of sighs as he does so. “I’ll never grasp that Vulcan programming language.”

“Practice makes perfect,” she says; though she doesn’t really understand it either. He laughs, and she presses her forehead to his. Soft blonde fringe.

Gary’s hands on her temples.

“You saw it too,” She realises. “You can read minds.”

His eyes, still glistening, widen a little. “How long have you-?”

“A while,” She says. “I mean, I suspected. I only just realised.” She strokes his skin. “Are you part-Vulcan? Betazoid, perhaps?”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t know- I’ve always been like this. I was born like this.” He blinks. “Most humans are psi-null, but ever since I was a child...” He glances at his hands, and shifts them from her face. “I’m sorry. It’s instinctive.”

She covers his hands with her own. “But it’s not touch-telepathy,” she murmurs.

“No. But it makes it stronger. More precise. Harder to ignore people’s thoughts. Otherwise, it’s only-” He blinks at her. “Fleeting impressions, and...”

“Go on,” she nuzzles into him, glad that she won’t have to explain her plan. “All other communications are being blocked.”

He exhales, and leans back against the wall. She curls up against him, and feels the kiss, pressed to her temple. Gary loves her, but she doesn’t need his telepathy to tell her that.

‘We are survivors from The USS Farragut,’ Gary thinks. ‘Our ship was destroyed. If there’s anyone out there, please, help us. We’re adrift near Vul- where- where Vulcan used to be.’

She feels the first stirrings of sleep, Gary’s distress call fresh in her mind. He doesn’t fight her as strongly now, but she feels him pleading with her. Siphoning his strength to her in the places where their skin touch. She sighs, and keeps her eyes open.

‘We are survivors from The USS Farragut...’ Gary begins, again.

She will hold on. For him.

*

When the Farragut is destroyed, a further thirty Vulcans are slain with it.

Spock can feel the sanity and control of every Vulcan on board unravelling slowly. Once he entrusts the care of the katras to a Vulcan elder, it should get easier.

It doesn’t.

He feels Jim, in medbay, grieving. It’s accompanied by a shocked numbness, which Spock shares. Sarek is in the cargo bay, helping to coordinate the Vulcan survivors, but Spock doesn’t linger on his feelings. They are too intense, redoubling back and intensifying his own. It is only a matter of time until his control fails, and they have yet to leave the Vulcan system. Every moment, his frustration grows, as the Narada gets further and further away.

Spock turns his focus back to The Enterprise. Every minute, a new shuttle hails them, more survivors are brought aboard, and Spock feels every one of their emotions like a sharp sting. Vulcan, destroyed over and over again. One hundred Vulcans. Two hundred. Three. A steadily-increasing crescendo of fear, rage, and helplessness. And, through it all, Jim’s own emotions, too difficult to bear, despite the things he’s taught him about emotional control. Jim, leaving medbay. Making his way up through the turbolift. Jim, Jim, Jim.

Like most of the Vulcans on board, Spock’s emotional shields have been completely obliterated. He can’t seal off the connection to any of the minds around him. Worse, still, the space once filled by his mother is a gaping wound.

He could just more easily saw off his own arm then he could sever the connection to James Kirk. But, James is still talking, and Spock catches a few words, like ‘attack’ and ‘surprise’. His mind is racing. He knows what James is planning. He’s watched every single repeat of his command-track simulation, the failures, and the unexpected triumph. But the cost for winning is too high.

“No,” Spock says, quietly.

Jim blinks at him.

“I am aware that this situation bears great resemblance to The Kobayashi Maru, cadet Kirk. But, this time, if you crash the ship into The Narada, you will not wake up.”

Jim looks sick. “Spock… What?”

“I will not allow you to destroy yourself,” he says. “We will stick to the plan. We will rendezvous with the fleet at-”

“We don’t have time to rendezvous with the fleet! Nero will arrive at Earth before us, and, once he does that, Earth will be reduced to dust, just like-” Jim’s eyes widen, and he finally, wisely, closes his mouth.

Just like Vulcan. Spock breathes, as a flicker of anger goes through him. It may not have originated with himself- it could have been anywhere in the confusing tangle of Vulcan minds, but in the moment, he reaches out, towards the back of Jim’s neck.

He pinches.

“Spo-” Jim crumples, but the thrum of foreign emotions does not go away. He cannot nerve-pinch his way out of this problem. He must have time to meditate, to repair his mental shields.

Forgive me, James, he thinks, but he doesn’t dare look at the fragile form curled on the floor beneath him.

He turns to Hendorff. “Get him off this ship.”

Chapter Text

Pike has no idea why he’s still alive. They must know, by now, they’re not going to get what they want, and yet, he’s still here. At least; he’s pretty sure he’s still here. He wiggles his fingers, and remembers all the times medical staff have asked him to do that after a severe trauma. He closes his eyes. The shackles around his wrists and ankles aren’t quite tight enough to stop him squirming around, but they keep him just uncomfortable enough that he can’t fall into anything more than a shallow sleep.

He chokes on something in the back of his throat, and turns his head violently. He spits out blood. He doesn’t quite remember how it got there. He decides it doesn’t matter. After The Fidas exploded, the doctors had asked him three questions related to fingers. ‘Can you feel your fingers, Captain?’ ‘Can you move them?’ ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

It seems, no matter how advanced tricorders become, some things will never change-

A loud splash behind him. He tenses, and listens for the sounds of someone wading through the water, but they never come. He relaxes- as much as he can, anyway- and searches the area above him for loose items and metals which could have made the sound.

This whole ship is falling apart. The flooded deck should have been a dead giveaway, but he was a little distracted when they first dragged him down here. Since then, he’s napped three times and cried twice, so his mental faculties are a little sharper. Come on, Pike, he thinks. Put that academy training to good use. He examines the beams, and decides they must be Klingon, not Romulan. Either Nero stole this ship, or the Romulans have a few more allies in the future. Either situation is equally likely.

The drip of water seems suddenly louder, and the metal beams a little closer. Bearing down on him from above. His breath stutters, and he inhales deeply.

You’re going to get out of this, Christopher. You’re going to get back to Earth. You’re going to call Winona Kirk, and leave flowers on Una’s grave. He breathes steadily for a moment, timing each breath to the water droplets behind him.

Drip.

The Fidas wasn’t anyone’s fault, really.

Drip.

Except for the Klingons.

Drip.

It has become a standard Federation mantra: when in doubt, blame the Klingons.

Drip.

He clenches his fists.

Drip. Drip. Drip-

As Christopher lies on the deck of the ruined bridge, the first thing he realises is that he’s lying in a pool of water. One of the replicators must be malfunctioning, which, given the explosion, is entirely understandable.

The second thing he realises is that the bridge doesn’t have a replicator. He frowns, and places a hand to the wetness on the floor behind him. It comes away red.

Drip. Huh.

Someone crouches next to him. His face is half-illuminated by the wall lights, pale and tense.

Spock. He tries to sit up, and falls back with a groan.

Drip.

Right. The head injury. A blue blur reaches for him, and Pike feels a hand on his shoulder. His eyes drift to the flickering wall lights, and he frowns. The bridge doesn’t have wall lights.

“Where are we?” He grunts.

The science officer retracts his hand, apparently satisfied that Pike isn’t going to attempt to move. “Escape pod one-oh-five,” he says.

Pike groans. “I didn’t order an evacuation.”

Spock inclines his head. “You were unconscious at the time, Captain.”

Pike looks up. “Did Una-?” he grimaces. Puts a hand on his forehead. “Did Number One order the evacuation?”

“No.” Spock’s hands tremble. Pike’s vision ebbs in and out of clarity, and he glimpses every nick and scratch on them. Green blood.

“You should get that looked at, son,” he says, at the exact same moment Spock says something. He stops, and looks at the young man again. “What?”

Spock stares at his hands. “Number-” he stops. “The First Officer is dead.”

His head goes fuzzy.

“I estimate fifty percent of the crew got away.”

Drip.

“Why am I still alive?” Pike whispers.

Splash.

“Because you still have Earth’s defence codes,” Spock says.

Pike opens his eyes. Two pointed ears fill his vision as the Vulcan stares down at him. He’s bald, and has a number of tattoos on his face. Pike blinks. It’s not Spock.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Just kill me.”

Ayel grins wickedly, all-teeth. In the half-light, they seem unnaturally long. Sharp.

“Your species does not know this yet, and you will not live to tell the tale,” Ayel begins. Always a good intro to a pre-torture speech, Pike thinks. His stomach turns. “But Romulans and Vulcans share a common ancestry,” Ayel continues.

His eyes flick back to the pointed ears. “I can see that,” he says, weakly.

Ayel bares his teeth again. Pike’s right arm jerks. Instinct tells him to cover his voice box in case the Romulan goes for the throat, but the shackles hold him down. He grunts, but Ayel only places a hand on his forehead.

“Telepathy was never the strongest branch of my father’s tree,” Ayel says. “My mother’s, however...” He places a hand on Pike’s forehead, and the Captain struggles.

“You’re half-Vulcan,” Pike whispers. Ayel sneers.

“Reuniting the planets of Vulcan and Romulus was Ambassador Spock’s great ambition,” he spits. “Let’s review the results. In my universe, Romulus was destroyed. In yours, Vulcan.”

“You’ve just blown up any chance you had of a future,” Pike grits, trying, in vain, to turn his head.

A hand fans out across Pike’s face, and his thumb digs into his chin, holding him in place. “I never had a future.”

Pike shakes. “Please-”

His eyes roll into his head. He throws his head back, and screams silently, as Ayel breaches his mind. ‘Better for my mother to perish on Vulcan as a child than to die on Romulus as an adult, forgotten and abandoned by the Federation.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Pike thinks. ‘You’ve made a terrible mist-’

Fire. Pain. Death. Ayel is screaming, and Nero stands beside him, watching Romulus burn. Through their bonds, Ayel catches flashes of his comrades’ dying moments. His father. His brother. His mother. Hers hurts the most, perhaps because she’s Vulcan, and can project more forcefully. He gasps, clutches his head, and comes to his senses, kneeling on the floor.

“I do not share your ability, Ayel, but I share your pain,” Nero says.

‘Mother,’ Ayel thinks, desperately.

If they had any control over where they travelled, Ayel would find the point whe re the First Romulans set out from Vulcan, and warn them not to colonise this planet. In three millennia, it will be doomed, burnt up by a star which burns too bright. But, as they’re sucked into the wormhole, only one thing is clear: wherever they end up, Ambassador Spock will follow. And then, they will have their revenge.

*

Jim wakes up, shivering. He’s wearing some sort of parka, but it’s not zipped up. The sides of the coat are pooled uncomfortably beneath him, and he tries to tug them free, but bangs his elbows on the sides of the too-small space. He tenses, tries to reach over, but falls back again, panting. I’m going to run out of air in here, he thinks. Although there’s a window directly in front of his face, he’s still trapped, and all he can see above him is a layer of snow and an endless, empty sky.

“Computer?” He asks, as he fumbles for a door handle, a release button, anything. “Where am I?”

“You are on Delta Vega,” the computer says. “There is a Starfleet Outpost fourteen kilometres away.” Jim finds a handle, and wraps his hands around it. “Please remain in your pod until a rescue party arrives.”

“Yeah, no chance,” he gasps, and turns the handle with force. There’s a hiss as the pod decompresses, and the door swings open. He gasps. A lungful of cold air hits him, and his nose burns, but he feels immediately calmer. And colder. If he was shivering before, he’s trembling now, teeth chattering in the ice planet’s temperature. He feels suddenly grateful for the parka, and zips it up. Of course the same Solar System with a planet as hot as Vulcan would have somewhere as freezing as Delta Vega, he thinks. You’d think this was a more fitting place for Vulcans to evolve on. A whole planet of walking ice-statues. He grits his teeth.

Spock. He glances at the sky, but suspects that The Enterprise was never in orbit around this planet. They just shoved him in the capsule and let him drift. He shivers again. A strong wind picks up, and tosses droplets of snow around.

Thank you for nothing, you pointy-eared bastard. He concentrates, but, wherever he is, Spock must be too far away for the bond to reach. Or, he’s actively blocking me, Kirk huffs. Alright, he thinks, Have it your way. I’ll just remember my insults. He really hopes Bones is raising hell right now, though, knowing the doctor, treating the injured will be his first priority. His breath mists in front of him, and he checks the computer readout. Apparently, he was only out for half an hour, though he’s angry at the lost time. The sooner he can get off this planet, the sooner he can get back to The Enterprise. If Spock is still following Starfleet’s plan- which he will be; he didn’t throw Jim off the ship just to follow his plan- the ship can’t have left the solar system by now. It will still be picking up escape pods, and preparing to transport the Vulcan survivors to. His heart clenches for a moment. How many of them could have possibly got away? The Narada may have warped out of the system after it destroyed The Farragut, but there couldn’t have been more than two thousand shuttles in orbit. How many people would fit on each one-?

Focus. He tries not to feel too sorry for Spock. That can wait until he’s yelled at him.

He pushes all thoughts of Gaila to the back of his mind, too. Work now, grieve later. Just keep moving.

“Computer, ship’s diagnostics.” It’s probably too much to hope that the pod can make an aerial ascent by itself. He pulls his hood up, and examines the on-board computer closely.

Well well well. He pulls himself out of the pod, smirking a little, and hits record. “Personal- and extremely pissed-off log- Acting First Officer Kirk. Stardate-” he reads the numbers off the screen, but they’re distorted by the flecks of snow. “Twenty two, five eight point four… two... four… uh, four- whatever.” He inhales.

“Acting Captain Spock has marooned me on Delta Vega, in what I believe is a violation of Security Protocol forty-nine-point-oh-nine governing the treatment of prisoners on board a starship." It’s petty, he knows, but the pod can at least connect to the subspace network. If Spock wants to check up on him, he’ll at least know he’s alive, and angry. Jim scowls. He wouldn’t be any happier in the Enterprise’s brig, though he would be less cold. He double-checks the pod’s navicom, and which direction the outpost is in. “There’s an outpost fourteen kilometres away, so I’m going to start walking there.” On foot. Alone. He shivers. That’ll show Spock.

It doesn’t take very long of wandering in the snow for him to run into trouble. He can’t hear or see very well because of the blizzard, but he can’t miss the low snarl. He turns, and frowns. It sounds like a cross between a bullfrog and an alpaca. Through the blizzard, an angry mass of snow is approaching him. A flash of green. His first instinct is to freeze, but- he stumbles in the opposite direction.

He glances over his shoulder. Bright green. Lime green. Many legs. Giant angry spider somehow evolves on frozen planet-

A drakoulias. He’s not entirely sure where he knows it from, probably one of Sulu’s biology textbooks, or a library archive. He keeps running. Sulu . He imagines what he would say if he could see him now. Probably ‘Good job, Jim! All that extra studying really paid off. Now you get to die knowing the exact genus of the predator that’s eating you.’

He slips in the snow, and rights himself. No, he thinks, that’s Bones. Sulu would just say... ‘RUN!’

I’m trying, he thinks. He must be losing the drakoulias, but he doesn’t dare turn to check. Still, it hasn’t eaten him yet, so he must be doing something right. Getting eaten by a giant spider-thing is not very helpful, not very heroic, and will definitely not impress Spock. It might make him feel guilty, though-

He gasps for breath, the frozen air burning his throat. He doesn’t want Spock to feel guilty, and he doesn't want to die, either. He keeps moving, blindly, no longer sure which direction The Outpost is in, and there’s snow on his face, snow in his eyes, snow in his nose and mouth. He claws at it with a hand, and slows down, keeping an ear out for footsteps behind him. A n incessant, insectoid snapping. Keep moving.

He doesn’t stop until he comes to a cave. Panting, he leans against the wall, and tries to shake off some of the snow.

Something shuffles behind him in the dark. He whips round, fists raised, feet stumbling into a defensive stance, and his eyes find-

A humanoid figure. Grey hair.

“James T Kirk.” The man says. A Vulcan. Except, he can’t be a Vulcan, because he’s… Smiling?

James takes a step back, and bumps into the cave wall. He jumps, but lowers his hands, heart racing. “Excuse me?” He tilts his head, and- yes. The man definitely has pointed ears.

“How did you find me?” The Vulcan asks. He says it with such certainty that Jim almost believes it.

James glances down at his own parka. It bears the starfleet insignia, but not his identification number. He blinks. “How do you know my name?”

The Vulcan half-smiles again. It’s his eyes, Jim thinks. There’s something impossibly familiar about his eyes.

“I have been, and always will be, your friend.”

Marriage vows, Jim thinks. The Vulcan has mistaken him for-

Dark eyes. Intelligent eyes, which betray just enough emotion. Human eyes.

Jim slumps, the exhaustion of the run catching up to him. “… Spock?”

*

It has been so long since Spock was last surrounded by a large concentration of Vulcans that he had almost forgotten what it felt like; though it was surely never as intense as this. A thousand thoughts clamour for attention, all a different timbre, pitch and volume, a screaming orchestra of sadness, confusion, and loss. He seeks shelter on the bridge, the furthest point from the Vulcan refugees. So loud. Gossip, he thinks, remembering James’ comments in the greenhouse a few nights ago. He understands it with a new kind of clarity now.

He stands near the communications desk, the one oasis of calm, and Uhura wordlessly takes her hand in his. Mmoja anayetunzwa, she thinks. Swahili. A brief respite from the storm of Vulcan and Standard in his head. She’s been teaching him Swahili. He can’t translate it perfectly, but he understands- feels- the sentiment regardless, through their joined hands. Ninakujali sana. Very much. I care for you so much. ‘I cherish thee.’ Vulcan again. He squeezes her hand.

While not as strong as a marriage bond, it’s ironic that theirs should still provide him some emotional stability. Some, but not enough. It occurs to him that, having lost only one bond, he may be one of the most stable Vulcans on the ship. One bond, and...

He thinks of James. Over the past week, he’s become used to the man’s presence. There’s a gaping hole where his mother used to be, and James’ absence only exacerbates it. But he had no choice-

Vulcan, perished. Vulcan, gone. A hole in the sky where it used to belong. The echoes of a thousand voices clamour for attention in his head, and he seeks shelter in the gentle, ordered chatter of Uhura’s mind.

She twists buttons and dials with her right hand, as her left is currently devoted to comforting him, and he moves to pull away. She stops him.

“I do not wish to interfere with your work,” he protests.

“Shh,” she says, and holds him tighter.

There are still echoes of James left on this ship, of course. He sees it in the careful way Sulu averts his gaze, jaw set, carefully keeping his opinion to himself. Spock recalls how they clung to each other after disabling the drill. It had been Sulu who pulled Jim from the transporter pad and escorted him to medbay.

Then, there’s The Chief Medical Officer.

Leonard McCoy. The man was Jim’s room mate, and, if his behaviour when Jim beat the Kobayashi Maru was any indication, is probably equally concerned for Jim. And, it is more than likely he is angry at Spock. He releases Uhura’s hand gently, and straightens up. The second their connection is broken, the chorus of Vulcans gets louder in the back of his mind, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

“Please summon Acting Chief Medical Officer McCoy to the bridge,” he manages.

Uhura watches him carefully, and nods. She turns a dial. “Bridge to Doctor McCoy.”

Perhaps it would be expedient- and logical, to drop the ‘acting’ from everyone’s title, for now.

After all-

His fists clench. He thinks of Vulcan, reduced to pain, and dust, and grief.

This is war.

Chapter Text

“It is remarkably pleasing to see you again, old friend. Especially after the events of today,” Old Spock says. He lights a fire, and insists that Jim sit down beside it. Proof, if it were needed, that this was, indeed, an elderly version of his friend. With the exception of bundling Jim into an escape pod- Jim scowls to himself- his Spock has done nothing but take care of him. Then again, everyone seems to be taking care of him recently. Jim looks down, and lets the fire warm his face.

“Your younger self marooned me here for mutiny.”

“Mutiny?”

“… Yeah.”

“You are not the Captain?”

“I’m twenty,” Jim laughs. “Spock’s the Captain. Pike was taken hostage.”

“By Nero.” Prime’s voice cracks, and Jim swallows, hard. “Yeah.

He watches the shadows chase across Spock’s cracked face. The resemblance isn’t immediately noticeable, but he thinks of the Vulcans who had beamed aboard with Spock. The one standing nearest him- probably his father- had looked rather like this. Prime is older than his own father. Or… an alternate version of his father.

“What do you know about Nero?” Jim asks, softly.

“He is a particularly troubled Romulan...” He inhales, lifts his hand, then stops. Like he’s used to doing this without asking. Jim doesn’t quite flinch away, but Spock draws back slightly. “Please, allow me. It will be easier.”

“A meld?” Jim asks. He bites his lip, but nods. “OK.” He shuffles closer. He remembers the words of the younger Spock. Clear your mind. Anything you do not wish me to see, imagine a door in front of it. But where would he even start?

I have been, and always will be, your friend.

“You know about Tarsus,” Jim whispers.

Prime’s eyes soften. “Yes. But, if there is anything you do not wish me to see-”

“Imagine a door,” Jim murmurs. His mouth twitches into a half-smile. “I know.” He presses his face against Prime’s palm. “I’m ready.”

His middle finger settles just above the ridge of his brow. His forefinger crests his cheek.

“Forgive me, old friend. This will not be the easiest meld.”

Jim tries to sit still. None of his experiences with Vulcan telepathy have been particularly easy so far, but he keeps that to himself. He closes his eyes.

A mind- a whole separate universe- crashes into his own.

A star exploding. Prime standing with a group of Vulcans- no. Romulans.

“I will save your planet.”

A promise he can’t keep.

A ship designed by The Vulcan Science Academy. The jellyfish-

Jim feels a wave of amused affection. “The Vulcans named a ship ‘the jellyfish’?”

He can feel Prime’s humour mirroring his own. The emotional version of keeping a straight face. “Yes, Jim.”

“Not the most noble of creatures. Nor the fastest.”

“No,” Prime admits. "And there lies the problem." The jellyfish is still en-route when the supernova explodes.

Flashes of other things. Other lives. Another life. Another James Kirk. Ripped command-gold shirts. The sands of Vulcan. A universe where Vulcan survives. Spock. Jim. Pon Farr. Kal-if-fee. Plak Tow. Madness. Burning. Death. Is this death? Death, life, rebirth. The needs of the many…

The supernova consumes Romulus.

Outweigh the needs of the few…

Jim’s own memories are in here. The other Jim’s. The same Tarsus. How can it be the same Tarsus? This universe, where George Kirk survived, yet Winona still went to Epsilon III. Where Jim was still left on Tarsus. The same domes. The same skies. Many events still unfolded the same. Except… The Fidas was never attacked by Klingons. Spock never returned early from the first Five Year mission. The two of them were never at the academy together at the same time. They missed each other by three years, then two years, then seven, and yet-

Or the one.

- they spend the rest of their lives together.

“Spock-” Jim’s breathing stutters, and then Prime is in his mind, his thoughts; his very soul.

Chess.

A Mirror Universe. ‘It was easy for you, as a civilised man, to pretend to be barbaric. It was not easy for him to do the reverse.’ The absolute, clear devotion which Jim has for Spock. One, Universal Constant. A clear thread binding them together. Three words. Friend. Brother. Lover.

One word.

T’hy’la.

Spock extracts red matter from The Jellyfish’s core, and shoots it into the supernova. As the ship moves to fly away, the Narada intercepts it. Incoming transmission.

“I am Nero.”

Last of the Romulan empire.

“The Empire is gone.”

Nero snarls. “Some remain. We do not share your dreams of reunification.”

It is Romulus’ last hope-

“No.”

Both ships are pulled into the black hole. Nero goes through first. He is the first to arrive-

The Kelvin. George Kirk. Through the trauma, Jim is born prematurely . Small. Nero spends the next twenty years awaiting Spock’s arrival, but the journey is only seconds for Prime. Outgunned. Outmanned. Dragged into the cargo bay by a tractor beam.

‘They returned to the same sector of space… Out of spite?’ Jim wonders.

‘He held me responsible for the loss of his world.’

Jim’s stomach clenches. Prime, kneeling before Nero.

“I’ve spared your life for one reason.” Vulcan, exploding. “So you can know my pain.” Beaming to Delta Vega. Spaceships escaping Vulcans atmosphere; not enough. Not enough. Four billion lives lost-

Jim cries out.

“The Intrepid. That’s a Vulcan ship, isn’t it?”

The bridge of the Enterprise. The Enterprise-A, the one from Prime’s universe.

“The Intrepid. It just- died.” That loss- the death-cry of a group of Vulcans at once- Prime has felt it before. “Captain, I can assure you. Not one Vulcan on that ship knew why they were dying. They only knew that they were.”

The combined terror of four hundred Vulcans.

And four billion.

‘Billions of lives lost. Because of me, Jim. Because I failed.’

Jim gasps, and opens his eyes. The cave swims back into view, and he shifts away from Prime. Something wet runs down his cheeks, and he shivers.

“Forgive me.” Gentle fingers brush his face again, and swipe away tears. “Emotional transference is an effect of the meld.”

Jim feels sick. Leans into Prime before he can stop himself. He’s surprised when strong arms wrap around him, pulling him close, and he hugs him back. How often has he wanted his own Spock to hold him like this? Is there a chance he might? It’s clear they’re not the same person, but the similarity-

“Are you alright, Jim?”

Jim . This Spock calls him Jim , not James. Few people call him that, and they’re all his-

Well. His family.

I have been, and always will be, your friend.

He looks up at Prime with a smile. Definitely wedding vows, he thinks. “Are you? Last time you experienced… That, you ended up in sick bay.”

Prime nods, stiffly, and Jim can tell he’s not alright. Not really. And so, he leans against his chest again, and holds the old Vulcan tightly. Prime shifts against him, and he can hear him breathing. He can also hear a very distinct absence. His eyes snap open, and he pulls away from the hug.

“Spock?”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Why don’t you have a heartbeat?”

Prime takes Jim’s hand, and gently guides it to his left side. “Vulcan hearts are lower than your own.”

Jim gapes, and feels the steady beat for a few moments. Then, he pulls away. “Jesus Christ. Fifteen textbooks and one year of xenobiology, and you’d have thought they’d mention that.”

Prime watches him fondly for a moment. Then, he stands. “We must get to the outpost. It’s not far from here.”

“It’s eighteen kilometres.”

“Ah.” Prime helps him to his feet. “Then we had better start walking.”

*

Spock lies facedown in the sand. A hand cards through his hair, and he doesn’t have the strength to fight it off. Allows it. Craves it. If I am to die, grant me this.

He tries to remember what his mother asked. ‘Are you sure you’re making the right decision?’

The decision was hardly his. He has sand on his eyelashes, and rolls onto his side. Isn’t vicious enough in blinking the grains out of his eyes. That is the only logical explanation for the tears that form, moments later. He thrusts an arm across his face so she can’t se e it, although it is the rest of the planet he does not wish to see him. There’s no one around, he’s sure of that: The family has been sent away, first by T’Pau, then an insistent Amanda, sending Sarek home. Spock knows there will be words when they return, but he is adamant: he is done with betrothals.

“Decisions are never hard for a Vulcan,” he says, finally.

“Easy to make, hard to live with,” Amanda murmurs.

“Then there is a solution,” Spock says, bitterly. “I will die in four years.”

“Spock!”

He curls up. “It is true.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“None will take me. I am too human. Too Vulcan. The matter will resolve itself.”

“You’ll change your mind, when it is your time.”

“I will not.”

“Perhaps… You will find your own bondmate? When you’re ready-”

“No.” He will ignore the biological imperative. “My peers are already betrothed.”

“Not every girl on Vulcan is betrothed, Spock. They don’t need to be.”

He bites his tongue. “Mother. Those I would wish to bond with… Are already betrothed.”

“You’ll find someone.”

She doesn’t understand. This is the closest he will ever get to telling her. The reason it will be so easy for her to believe that he and Nyota are-

“You wanted to see me?”

Spock starts. McCoy appears beside Spock, arms folded.

“Yes, Doctor. I am aware that James Kirk is a friend of yours. I recognize that supporting me as you did must have been difficult.”

His hands drop to his sides. “Is that a thank you?”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “I am simply acknowledging your difficulties.”

McCoy narrows his eyes. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“I welcome it,” Spock says.

“Do you?” McCoy exhales. “Ooh, boy. OK.” He nods to himself for a moment. “Are you out of your Vulcan mind?”

Ah.

“Are you making a logical choice sending Kirk away? Probably. But the right one?”

No, Spock thinks. He stares at The doctor.

“You know, back home we have a saying,” the doctor continues. “’If you're gonna ride in the Kentucky Derby, you don't leave your prize stallion in the stable.’"
"A curious metaphor, doctor, as a stallion must first be broken before it can reach its potential." The doctor stares at him. A long, hard stare. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and carefully re-folds his arms. “My god, man. You could at least act like it was a hard decision.”

Easy to make, hard to live with. But Spock doesn’t have long left. If his actions give James Kirk the chance to survive, he will live with them. Whether he has two days, or two years.

He takes the tiniest half-step back towards Uhura. “I intend to assist in the effort to re-establish communication with Starfleet.” The turbolift doors open, and Spock glances towards it. “However, if crew morale is best served by me roaming the halls weeping, I will gladly defer to your judgement.” He tries not to concentrate on the waves of grief which are steadily redoubling off his father, and tips his head towards McCoy. “Excuse me.”

He hears McCoy mutter something as he walks away, and fixes his eyes on his father.

*

When they enter the outpost, they’re greeted by a Royla, who introduces himself as Keenser and doesn’t say much else, beyond “Follow.” It’s only marginally warmer inside the outpost than it was outside, and Jim watches the elderly Vulcan with concern. Jim can cope with the cold, but, as he watches the elderly Vulcan repress a shiver, he’s glad to think they’ll be getting off this planet soon.

They make their way down a corridor into a central control room with the same air and appearance as a bachelor pad. A man wearing an unzipped parka sits with his feet up on the controls, and turns to them the moment the door shuts behind them.

“Ah! At last!” He drops a spoon into the pot he was eating from, and places it on the desk, as if to punctuate his point. “You realize how unacceptable this is?” He says, in a thic Scottish accent.

“Fascinating,” Prime murmurs.

“What?” Jim asks.

The engineer spins in his chair absently. “Yeah, I'm sure you're just doing your job, but could you not come a wee bit sooner?” Spin. “Six months I've been here, living off Starfleet protein nibs and a promise of a good meal.” Spin. The man hooks his leg round a table leg, reverses, and spins the other way. Jim feels dizzy just watching him. “And I know exactly what's going on here, okay? Punishment, isn't it? Ongoing, for something that was clearly an accident.”

“You are Montgomery Scott,” Prime says. It’s not a question.

“Aye, that's me.” Scott stops spinning, and folds his arms. “You're in the right place. Unless there's another hard-working, equally starved Starfleet officer around

“Me,” Keenser says.

“Shut up! You don't eat anything. You can eat like a bean, and you're done,” Scotty pinches the air, and Keenser looks nonplussed. “I'm talking about food. Real food.” He looks back at Jim and Spock. “But, you're here now, so thank you. Where is it?”

Jim looks around. “Don’t you have a replicator?”

“Aye, you’d think so,” Scott picks up his pot again. “You’d really think so.”

Spock suppresses another shiver. “You are, in fact, the Mister Scott who postulated the theory of transwarp beaming.”

Jim frowns. Whatever it is, it’s a concept he hasn’t heard of, though the Scotsman’s eyes light up.

“Aye, that’s what I’m talking about!” He taps the pot with his spoon, and nods to himself. “How'd you think I wound up here?” Tap tap. “I had a little debate with my instructor on the issue of relativistic physics and how it pertains to subspace travel-” he shoves a spoonful of whatever the contents of the pot are in his mouth, and continues talking. “He seemed ‘oo fink that the range of transporting something like a-” he grabs something round and grey-ish on his desk, and holds it aloft. “- like a grapefruit, was limited to a thousand kilometres. I told him, not only could I beam a grapefruit from one planet to the adjacent planet in the same system, I could do it with a lifeform. So, I tested it on Admiral Archer's prized beagle.”

“Wait, I know that dog. What happened to it?”

Scott tears into the not-grapefruit. “I don't know.” The fruit congeals, and he wrinkles his nose. “I'll tell you when it reappears. I do feel guilty about that,” he smiles sheepishly.

The smell of the fruit hits Jim, and he takes a step back. “What is that?”

Scott scowls. “A Roylan riverfruit. They only stocked this outpost with enough for Keenser before I got stuck here. It’s bad,” he takes a bite. “But, technically, edible.”

“… Noted.” Jim glances at Prime. “I hope you have a plan,” he murmurs.

The corners of Prime’s eyes crinkle, and he makes his way to the computer terminal. “What if I told you that your transwarp theory was correct? That it is indeed possible to beam onto a ship that is travelling at warp speed?”

“I think if that equation had been discovered, I'd have heard about it.”

Jim smirks. Prime begins to input numbers into the computer. “The reason you haven't heard about it, Mister Scott, is because you haven't discovered it yet.”

Scott approaches Prime warily. “I'm a. Uh. What?” He peers over Prime’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

“This, Mr Scott, is your equation for achieving transwarp beaming.”

His eyes widen. “Are you from the future?”

Jim grins. “Yeah. He is, I'm not.”

“Well that's brilliant.” Scott sits back in his chair again. “Do they still have sandwiches there?”

Jim frowns, and searches his pockets, to no avail. “Sorry,” he says. His breath comes too fast, and he tries to temper it. “I normally…” he knows, with irritating clarity, that he has food stashed in his cadet uniform, but the starship uniform he’s currently wearing is largely empty. Bones dressed him, he remembers- or, at least, the medical staff did. Why didn’t Bones remember? But then, he thinks, perhaps something as inconsequential as hiding minor food stashes around your quarters and in your uniform had escaped Bones’ attention. Even though he knows about Tarsus now, there’s no reason for him to have assumed-

A hand falls on his shoulder, and he leans towards Prime slightly. Not quite enough to lean into him, but he feels supported anyway. Shaken out of the beginnings of panic.

Prime watches him with kind eyes, and wordlessly removes a small, foil-wrapped rectangle from his shirt.

Jim gives him a tight smile. “Oh. He did that too, huh?”

Prime inclines his head. “I picked up a few old habits from your counterpart,” he raises a brow, and passes the food to Scott, who grabs it quickly, as if Prime’s going to change his mind.

“This way,” Scott says, through a mouthful.

*

They rematerialise, and Jim opens his eyes. They’re on board The Enterprise, alright: each standing in almost exactly the same position: Keenser to his left, Prime to his right, and, behind him-

He turns, and his heart leaps in his throat.

A large red pipe. Easily big enough to fit a man.

“Mr Scott?!” He yells. There’s a sudden pounding from inside the pipe, and Jim swears. He runs along the length of it, and locates the emergency release valve. There’s a hatch beside it, and he locks eyes with Prime. “I need to get him to swim over here.” Prime nods, presses his hand to the pipe, and closes his eyes.

A few, tense seconds. Scott appears in a see-through section of pipe, eyes wide. Jim waves him along to the hatch, and opens it.

Scott- and a whole lot of water- spills out of it. Jim jumps clear, and it auto-seals itself once Scott’s through.

Scott falls to all fours and coughs violently. Keenser slaps him on the back as Jim peels his parka off, offering it to the man. He catches his breath, and takes it after a moment. “I,” he wheezes. “- Forgot to breathe before pressing ‘transport’. Somehow, this scenario didn’t occur to me.”

“The odds were against it,” Prime assures him, and Scott gives a watery laugh.

“The odds were against us getting on the ship at all,” he says. “Could have been worse, I s’pose.”

Keenser points to something. Scott looks, with a grimace. “Aye, I could have ended up further down the water reclamation unit,” he peels his wet shirts off, and redresses in the parka, with a nod to Jim. “So, what do we do now?”

Jim helps him to his feet, and out of the puddle. “We find someone to take us to the bridge.”

“I believe,” Prime says, as a red light begins to flash. “They have already found us.”

*

Spock stands on the observation deck near the cargo bay and attempts to clear his mind.

“You should reconsider my proposal,” a voice says behind him.

Spock straightens without turning. “T’Nara.”

He can see her reflection in the window, and their eyes meet. She watches him with a look he knows well, and he stares her down. Instead of warding her off, she takes it as an invitation to approach.

“It is logical. There are only ten thousand of us now.” She’s the epitome of Surakian logic and principles, for her voice betrays no emotion. Perhaps she genuinely has none, although it is unlikely. She’s a little older than he is, though it is exceedingly rare for Vulcans to complete the discipline of Kolinahr before the age of thirty.

He turns to her. The orange robes she’s wearing are much brighter than the dim reflection in the window. Flickering candlelight. Unforgiving suns. The bold colours of home. They bring out the warm undertones of her dark skin, and he’s struck again by how impossibly calm she is.

“I should inform you,” he attempts to keep his voice as carefully measured as hers. “I am in a relationship with Lieutenant Uhura.”

“Yes.” She tilts her head. “A charade I invite you to abandon.” Spock feels his face twitch, and places his hands behind his back. Finds his pulse, and concentrates on it. Feels the steady bump of his heart-

“Lying is unbecoming for a Vulcan,” T’Nara’s voice snaps him out of his contemplation, and he lifts his chin.

“You believe I concocted a relationship, solely for your benefit?”

“No. Not in the beginning, although, it surely is now.”

It is a punch to the gut. T’Nara cannot possibly know the impact of her words. She does not know that she was an unknowing accomplice in the plot to appease his mother, a plot which feels hollow now that she’s gone. T’Nara knows only that Vulcan was destroyed, and she does not mean to be cruel. She is only focused on cold, pure logic, but he doesn’t voice any of this.

Spock clasps his hands behind his back. “Lying is unbecoming for a Vulcan… And yet, so is vanity.”

She frowns. “You still deny it?”

“If you think I am a liar, why do you wish to bond with me?”

She blinks. “You have other qualities. I find you to be aesthetically pleasing.”

Spock’s lips form into a thin line. There should be solidarity in their mutual grief, their sudden vulnerability in the universe, but even among an endangered species, Spock will always be emotional. Exotic. An outcast.

And yet… T’Nara could offer acceptance. His father would certainly approve. She is accomplished in her field, and, admittedly, understands humans more than many Vulcans, due to her extended time spent on Earth. But, that does not mean she accepts them.

She is also accustomed to getting what she wants. Unlike Nyota, she desires to copulate, for one thing. It was a central part of her pitch. The thought lends itself to nausea, but for the sake of logic, he forces himself to contemplate it for a moment. While widening the gene pool, a sceptical part of him wonders what type of attitude children who are a quarter Vulcan will face in their new society. When he pictures that, the answer is obvious.

“You do not trust me,” Spock says. “That is integral to a successful bond.” She studies him, and finds eyes that are, perhaps, a little too human.

“I could learn to trust you,” she says. “This is a minor infraction. It is understandable, even. I know how human it is, to lie to thyself.”

And there, again, is the problem. He feels small, as if he’s fourteen again, standing on the sands of Vulcan, humiliated, and wondering why fate had chosen him to die. He’s never blamed T’Pring, of course. He’s grateful, in many ways. It was a betrothal that would only have them both unhappy. Not yet knowing that his human genes would spare him, for now. Nine years later, it is he who has survived. Now, T’Pring, and Stonn, are dead, and he cannot even turn to his mother for guidance. His mother, who never once allowed her humanness be used as an excuse to treat her as lesser, or undermine her opinion- as little as Vulcans, even Sarek, were inclined to respect opinions.

“T’Nara. One difference I have come to cherish between humans and Vulcans is the importance placed by humans in equality.” She blinks at him, and he continues. “I do not believe you would see me as an equal.”

“You will change your mind,” she says. “I do not believe you are as illogical as you pretend to be, and I know you are not spiteful.”

He clenches his fist. “Infinite Diversity In Infinite Combinations,” he says. “For all their faults-” he closes his eyes. Remembers the harsh, tight strings of worry from his mother, the ties that kept him ever-tethered to illogic, anger, always on the edge of losing control. “I have felt more welcomed on Earth than I ever felt on Vulcan.”

“That is... human emotionality. It was your choice to turn down The Vulcan Science Academy.” He moves to speak, and she raises a palm. “It is not a criticism. It is what first drew me to you. To work with a Vulcan on Earth who was affiliated with Starfleet. And a half-human, at that.”

“You believe I would be an interesting research project.”

She opens her mouth to reply, when the comm-unit whistles. They look up in unison. “Captain Spock to the bridge,” Uhura’s voice cuts through their conversation.

Spock looks to T’Nara. “Excuse me.” He moves past her, and back towards the turbolift, fighting the rising tide of voices in his head. Homesickness. Despair. Betrayal. The lone survivor of a clan. Bloodlines, wiped out. Death. Death. Death. Death. He grips the side of the lift, steadying himself. “Bridge,” he croaks. Mother. Father. Brother. Sister. Orphaned. T’Pring. Stonn, T’Rena, T’Luse . Names he knows, names he doesn’t know. Families he recognises. Pain, pain, pain, pain. Their intensity lessens the further he gets from the lower decks, but he’s more aware of them now. There’s something else, a pin-prick of someone instantly familiar, a beacon of light in all the mess, and noise, but when he tries to reach for it, he’s hit again. The moment the turbolift opens, he steps towards Uhura, intending to recover, for a moment, in her ordered mind-

Every head on the bridge turns to him. It will have to wait.

“Sir,” Sulu says, with a barely-repressed grin. “We have a security alert in the Engine room.”

Hendorff is at his side in an instant, and Spock glances at the holo-feed. One of the water pipes has been opened, and a man in a red shirt sits on the floor in the middle of a large puddle, soaked to the bone. Three other humanoids are gathered around him. The first is Vulcan, the second, a short, grey-skinned humanoid. A Royla. And, the third-

The one point of light in the chaos. A single thought, felt with a perfect, determined sharpness.

“Kirk,” Hendorff growls.

Spock tilts his head. The strange feeling in his chest bursts into a sudden, obvious clarity. Somehow, Jim has beamed aboard the ship.

“How the hell did he do that?” Hendorff growls.

Spock’s eyebrow twitches. “James Kirk has a penchant for achieving the impossible. This… Appears to align with his skillset.”

Sulu’s grin. Chekhov sits beside him, eyes wide, and elbows him in the ribs. It only makes the helmsman laugh more.

“Bring them to the bridge, Mr Hendorff,” Spock says. The security officer nods.

Spock concentrates, relief flooding through him, and pushes through the wave of Vulcan distress downstairs. James. James is-

Spock raises an eyebrow.

James is furious with him.

*

When Jim is brought to the bridge, accompanied by the three other intruders, all Spock can feel is relief. He resists the urge to grab him.

“How did you beam onto a ship that was moving at warp speed?” he snaps.

Jim glances to the man dressed in red beside him, a Starfleet engineer, by the looks of things, and “Don’t answer that,” he says.

Spock turns to the engineer. “What’s your name?”

“… Ensign Montgomery Scott,” he says. “Can I have a towel?”

“I order you to explain-”

Jim rolls his eyes, and interrupts before he can pull rank. “- Would you believe me if I told you there’s a second Time-Traveller- who’s on our side- and also knows some pretty handy future-warp-speed-equations and such?”

Spock blinks. He glances to the elderly Vulcan behind Jim, and frowns. The man bears a slight resemblance to his father.

“Is it the truth?” Spock asks.

Jim nods.

“Then yes.” Spock straightens. “Now that you are back on the ship, you should resume your duties as Acting First- as First Officer.”

The corners of Jim’s mouth twitch, but he maintains his glower. In the past thirty seconds, its effectiveness has reduced by approximately 72%. Spock raises his eyebrows.

Another mind presses against his. This really is the most inopportune time. He tries to shut it out, but it won’t leave.

Paranoia. The feeling is not his own, although, as such an illogical emotion, the blame is likely to fall squarely on him. He wonders how many Vulcans can feel echoes of his presence, and how many will point the finger at him for introducing emotional sickness into the herd. He can only be grateful that Nero’s true motive- the fact that Vulcan was destroyed as an act of revenge against him, personally- is not widely known outside this ship. He buries the thought, lest any of the Vulcans can hear him, and tries to shake the feeling off.

If he had to pinpoint the source, he’d say the Vulcan responsible was sitting downstairs, in the medical bay, plotting the takeover of the ship. He shakes himself. Focus. I am in control of my emotions. He reaches out to the Vulcan, and tries to offer some semblance of calm,, but he can't make a connection. The presence vanishes as fast as it arrived. He exhales. He begins to formulate a plan. He can pass control of the bridge to Jim, and retreat to his quarters to meditate. Hopefully, once he and the other Vulcans on board have had the chance to regain their mental faculties, he will be well-rested enough to resume control and rendezvous with what remains of the fleet. He prepares to say it. ‘Commander Kirk, you have the conn-’ but the moment he opens his mouth, yet another mind crashes into his own.

He knows, instantly, whose mind it is, can still feel every moment of their conversation like copper in his mouth. The fact that she is dwelling on it does not make it any easier to ignore.

T’Nara.

All seven members of her family perished on Vulcan. Three brothers, two sisters. Her mothers. He feels her aching; a great loneliness. The sting of rejection. He understands, with a sudden, painful brilliance, why she was so quick to pursue him, so desperate to fill the void with something, anything.

She would deny she ever had them, but the intense emotions are overwhelming. He tries to find a neutral point of white noise in the tangle of telepathy. For a split second, he locks eyes with his father, but it only amplifies his grief.

Weak. Half-breed. Irrationality, the height of illogic. Too human to be able to temper his emotions-

He searches for an anchor point, anything to which he can tether his mind.

Jim. Nyota. Those two human minds, so close to him on the bridge. One, within arm’s reach. The two voices in the crowd who are not screaming with rage, and fear, and loss.

But they are psi-null, and cannot emote to him. The bonds between them, platonic as they are, are too weak. Perhaps, he thinks, wistfully, if his connection to Jim were strong enough-

His vision blurs.

Handing temporary control of the bridge to Jim will not be enough. His hand trembles as he takes hold of Jim’s wrist. He need only project a portion of the tangle of other peoples’ emotions that he’s feeling, and Jim flinches away.

“Spock,” he breathes. He tries to reach for Spock again, but the Vulcan steps back, and places his hands behind his back.

“No, Jim,” he murmurs. His voice cracks, and he steels himself. One sentence. He need only make it through one sentence.

“I am emotionally compromised,” he manages. “I am no longer fit for duty. I hereby relinquish my command.” He looks to Uhura. "Please note the time and date in the ship's log."

The moment he steps into the turbolift, the tears threaten to spill over. He’s not sure how he gets to his room; his legs move by themselves, and he arrives in what he assumes to be the first officer’s quarters. The doors open by themselves. He knows any attempt to meditate would be useless.

For the first time in his life since he was a child, he curls up on his bed, and allows himself to cry, and cry, and cry.

Chapter Text

Jim has broken up a number of fights in his life, between humans and aliens alike, but getting elbowed in the nose by a Vulcan can really put a dampener on an already-difficult day. In retrospect, they probably should have expected this- especially given Spock’s reaction to Vulcan’s destruction- and every Vulcan seems to snap at the exact same moment.

Well. Almost every Vulcan. Prime- who has introduced himself to the other Vulcans only as ‘Selek’- is the first to break up the fights.

Someone offers him a hand up, which he accepts, careful to only grasp his wrist. Once righted, he looks at the man more closely. He’s wearing charcoal grey robes, and bears a striking resemblance to Selek.

“You were beamed onto the ship with Spock,” Jim realises. “Out of all the Vulcan elders, you were standing nearest to him. I hope it’s not rude to ask, but- are you his father?”

The Vulcan nods. “I am Sarek.” He regards Jim for a moment. “Your question was logically reasoned, Captain. I would not have been offended.”

“And if it wasn’t?”

Sarek hesitates. “It would be illogical to punish simple curiosity.”

“Yeah,” Jim’s eyes are drawn to a Vulcan in the corner, weeping openly. “Something told me that logic might not be the most pressing thing on your mind right now.”

“Vulcans should always adhere to the teachings of Surak.”

“Still. You seem to be coping better than-”

He gasps, and stumbles to a halt as a wave of anguish washes over him. It takes him a moment to realise Sarek has stopped moving, too. Sarek raises an eyebrow at him.

“You are bonded to my son?”

Jim’s breathing stutters. “Not bonded, no,” he says, quickly. “I have become… close to him,” he admits. “We do have a platonic bond.”

Sarek nods, stiffly, as they begin to make their way across the medbay again. “You have been… Friends long, then?”

He shakes his head. “Less than a week. Why?”

Sarek stops walking again and gives Jim a thoughtful stare. “Simple curiosity,” he murmurs. He looks at Jim more closely. “It was you who brought the time traveller aboard?”

Jim straightens. “Yes.”

Sarek purses his lips. “The name Selek… It is an old family name.”

Jim’s lip twitches. “I don’t suppose he wanted many people to know.”

Another pulse of pain hits him through the bond, and he cries out. Heads turn. It’s testament to the sheer theatricality of Vulcans that, even while suffering a similar telepathic onslaught, every single one of them manages to shoot him a judgemental look.

Jim shakes. “Why is it effecting him more?” He clutches his head. “I didn’t think he had many Vulcan connections.” Then, it hits him. “It’s you, isn’t it? All your bonds...” Ambassador Sarek. “You’re the conduit for it. Can’t you shut off your bond with him?”

Sarek looks pained. "No."

“When Doctor M’Benga told me fights were breaking out between Vulcans on the lower decks, he said… When Vulcan was destroyed, the planet send out a sort of… psychic-death-cry, and most Vulcans’ shields got ripped away. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Sarek gives a terse nod.

As if to illustrate the point, another fight breaks out at the end of the cargo bay.

*

The door to his quarters slides shut. At the disturbance, Spock opens his eyes. Across the room, Jim is quietly pulling on a black undershirt, and gives him a small smile.

“Captain...” Spock knows he should sit up, but he just lies there. “What are you doing in my quarters?”

His smile widens. “Technically, they’re The Captain’s quarter’s,” he says. He moves over to the bed. “I doubt your resignation was registered by the ship’s computer when you first came in.”

“I apologise,” Spock murmurs. He rises. “I shall relocate at once-”

Jim places a hand on his shoulder. “Lie down,” he says. “Besides. You should be Captain.”

“No,” Spock murmurs. Still, he lies back down on his side, and feels the bed shift as Jim sits down beside him.

“You have field experience.”

“Jim.” He clasps his hands together. “The last time I commanded a starship, almost three hundred people died.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Spock exhales. “When command fell to me, I gave the command to retreat, but it was too late.”

“And the rest of the bridge crew were all unconscious, or...” he squeezes Spock’s shoulder. “What were you supposed to do? Attempt mutiny?”

Spock watches him from of the corner of his eye. “That method has worked well for you recently.”

Jim’s mouth twitches. “Maybe my luck’s better than yours.” After a pause, he settles down beside Spock. Although he’s facing away from him, Spock can feel him watching the back of his head. Jim doesn’t move beyond that, a silent invitation, and, after a moment, Spock settles back against him. Jim drapes his arm over Spock’s and holds him loosely, not quite an embrace, but something akin to it.

Spock considers what he’s said. In many ways, Jim has been more fortunate than him. But, then, there is the matter of Tarsus IV. Apparently, Jim must be thinking the same thing, and Spock feels a flood of warmth spread through their joined arms.

“When was the last time you slept?” Jim asks.

Spock frowns. “Vulcans do not require as much sleep as-”

“Spock.”

He exhales. “Thirty seven hours ago.”

“Not since we left Earth, you mean,” Jim says.

Spock nods.

Jim rises to leave.

“Captain,” Spock murmurs.

“Yes, Mr Spock?” Jim says, adjusting to his formal tone.

Spock closes his eyes. “Please stay.” His voice cracks.

“Of course,” Jim murmurs. He sits back down on the edge of the bed, and smooths a hand though his hair wordlessly. With his other hand, he rubs circles into the base of Spock’s neck, the one vertebrae sticks out at the back when he’s curled up like this.

He circles the bone, and little tingles of affection ping back to him. He pretends, for a moment, that he isn’t eavesdropping on Spock’s emotions. He knows his shields aren’t working right now, although he wonders why he hasn’t attempted to meditate. Perhaps placing more focus on the thoughts of the other Vulcans around him would do more harm than good right now. Whatever it is, he can tell that he’s consumed by a very human exhaustion. He continues his ministrations, until the Vulcan begins to slip into sleep.

With a soft sigh, Spock curls in on himself, and the curve of spine becomes more pronounced. His fingers twitch. Jim moves slowly, aware that the softest rustle of covers might wake those keen ears, and unfurls the blanket from the foot of the bed. After a moment, he pulls it over Spock.

Spock makes a small sound which Jim can only compare to a cat, chirruping. Jim bites back a laugh, and releases the blanket. Spock settles into it, his breathing becoming more regular and even, and Jim watches him sleep for a moment, finally peaceful, and safe.

His resolve hardens.

Part of him wants to go back downstairs, to every stubborn, faux-logical Vulcan, and ask them why they shunned the one member of their society who will actually obey the teachings of Surak, even when it tears him apart. He wants to turn the ship around, chase down The Narada, and launch an attack plan. Most of all, he wants to find a way to beat The Kobayashi Maru in real life.

He realises he can only do one of those things. He glances back at Spock, who looks so much younger in sleep, and remembers how vocal he was in his opposition to this plan. Still, he steels himself, and leaves the Captain’s quarters, pausing only to grab a yellow shirt from the cabinet on his way.

He presses the intercom. “Kirk to the bridge,” he says.

“Captain,” Sulu replies.

“Mr Sulu. Plot a course to Earth. We’re turning this ship around.”

Chapter Text

“Captain,” Uhura says, as he enters the bridge. “There’s a subspace communication from Starfleet command.”

He frowns at her as he moves over to her desk.

“You’re still on duty?” He leans against her station, and she cocks her head at him.

“What?” She places a hand to her earpiece, and concentrates.

“You know, with all the Vulcans on board. The bond- weren’t you feeling anything from Spo-?”

She holds a finger up to him. “I’m still monitoring the rest of the fleet, but it’s getting difficult the further away we get.” She presses a button, and a message appears on-screen. “Starfleet command want us to turn around.”

Jim curses. “But this is the only way to save Earth!”

“I told them that, sir. But the Federation thinks we should focus on getting the Vulcans onboard to safety. They’ve already started evacuating Earth.”

“You can’t be serious. Where are they all supposed to go? Even if they somehow find enough transport vessels, which they won’t-”

Her mouth twitches. “It’s entirely possible that we won’t receive their response for another twelve hours.”

Jim glances at the screen.

||RECONVENE IN LAURENTIAN SYSTEM||

“Uhura, I can see it right there.”

“Oh, can you?” She leans back in her chair slightly, and knocks a button with the headrest. “Whoops.” The message disappears.

“Uhura!”

“- Hear me out,” she says. “Whatever plan you’ve got, they can’t be angry at us once we succeed. And, if we fail-”

“It won’t matter anyway,” Jim supplies, with a grim smile.

“You haven’t got a plan yet, have you?” She says.

“...Not as such.”

“Well, Earth is protected as long as those defences are up.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Jim says.

“You don’t think Pike would give them up?”

Jim winces. “Not willingly.” He looks at the empty screen. “Plus, all our best starships are headed to the Laurentian system.”

“Not all of them,” Uhura smiles.

“Right.”

“You just have to think of a better plan.”

“Thinking...” He settles cross-legged on the edge of her console, and she sits back in her chair studying him.

“Have you eaten recently?” She says, finally.

“What?” He slumps. For one, wild moment, he wonders if she’s spoken to Bones.

“I’m thinking, plans are better thought-out when you take a break. And, I’m hungry.” She rises. “Join me?”

Jim slides off the console, and follows her with a smile.

*

“Let me see that wound,” Pike murmurs.

Spock shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re not going to die because of decorum,” he murmurs, and beckons him. “I know Vulcans have a thing about-”

“We have no bandages,” Spock says, stiffly.

“Yeah, we do,” Pike tears his shirt off. Spock raises a hand weakly, but Pike shushes him. “It’s OK.”

‘Do you really want to watch him die again, Pike?”

A sudden chill goes through him, and Pike fights the table restraints. It’s not real. It’s not real, he tells himself.

He focuses on Spock. “Just hold on. We’re getting out of here.”

Spock says nothing.

“Spock!”

At least it was quick that time.

He turns his head. “You can’t keep this up forever. You’re getting tired, too-”

‘How do you think Una died, Captain? Do you think it was a slow death?’

Pike breathes shallowly.

‘Who bleeds out faster, a half-Vulcan, or a human?’

‘Stop it.’

‘I can show you, if you like.’

“No.”

Una, lying on the floor beside him, inches away, eyes open, but unseeing. Glassy. Pike crawls away, but he stumbles over something soft. Another body. Lieutenant Hansen. A tremor runs through him, and he finds himself back in the escape pod, red blood mingling with green, as Spock and Una bleed out on the floor in front of him.

“You can just take what you want from my head,” he whispers. “Why the games?”

“Because I’m not a mind-reader.”

“But… you’re Vul-”

“-No Vulcan is. If you wanted to show me the codes, they would be easy to find, but, as you continue to resist-”

“You’re terrible at this,” Pike says.

Ayel snarls. “Let me see the codes, Christopher. You killed every person on The Fidas. What’s one more planet?”

Pike squints at him. Remembers something the… younger one had said earlier. Kirk. “How many people could you have possibly tortured before? This is a mining vessel. You’re inexperienced.”

Ayel grins at him without humour. “I’ve been in your universe for twenty years. And,” his fingers find Pike’s meld points again. “I have many hours to practise.”

He screams.

*

“… Is it possible to get aboard Nero's ship undetected?” Jim asks.

“No,” Bones snaps. “You can’t just go in there, guns blazing, Jim-”

“- I’m asking anyone trained in astrophysics,” Jim turns away from him, and looks to the helm.

Sulu shakes his head. “No,” he says, flatly. “The math doesn't support it.”

“Hmm.” Jim points to him. “You haven’t received your astrophysics grade yet.”

Sulu rolls his eyes. “My passing grade won’t have any influence on the laws of physics, J- Captain.”

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me we can’t overtake a beaten up mining vessel?”

“- A beaten-up mining vessel three times the size of our own ship, from the future.”

“… Point taken,” Jim sighs. The corner of Sulu’s mouth twitches.

“If we follow this course, we can still arrive at Earth at the same time as them, but we can’t overtake them.”

Jim exhales. “If only someone from Earth could intercept them-”

“Captain Kork?” A voice calls behind him. As Jim turns to it, he makes brief eye contact with Bones, and they exchange a look. A look which acknowledges, however briefly, the pure insanity of Jim’s command position. He looks away, his heart beating just a bit faster, and attempts a smile.

“Chekhov, what is it?”

“Based on the fastest course from Wulcan, Nero will have to travel past Saturn. If we drop out of warp behind one of Saturn's moons, the magnetic distortion from the planet's rings will make us inwisible to Nero's sensors. As long as the pulse-device is not actiwated we could beam aboard the ship undetected.” Chekhov pauses. “That is, if Mr Scotty- Scott- can get us above warp factor four.”

Jim must look stunned, because Uhura gives him an encouraging smile. He glances to the transporter controls, where Mr Scott is standing, and raises an eyebrow at him. “What do you say, Scotty?”

The Scotsman blinks at him for a moment, and checks something on his screen. “Aye, that might work. The Nacelles were damaged in the attack, but we can reroute power to compensate. Only problem is, we won’t be able to fire while the ship is in motion.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Bones waves his hands. “Wait a minute.” He points at Chekhov. “How old are you, kid?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Oh! Oh, good, he's seventeen.”

“Doctor, Mister Chekov is correct,” says a familiar voice, as the turbolift doors hiss closed behind them. Jim’s heart soars as Spock steps onto the bridge. “I can confirm his telemetry. If Mister Sulu is able to manoeuver us into position, I can beam aboard Nero's ship, steal back the black hole device, and if possible, bring back Captain Pike.

Jim finds himself shaking his head. “I won't allow you to do that, Mister Spock-”

“Romulans and Vulcans share a common ancestry. Our cultural similarities will make it easier for me to access the ship's computer to locate the device. Also, my mother was Human, which makes Earth the only home I have left.”

Jim hesitates. “I'm coming with you.”

“I would cite regulation, but I know you will simply ignore it.”

After they finalise their plans, Jim addresses the one person in the room he knows will adhere to his request. The one person he can burden with this task. There’s a reason that Sulu makes a much better helmsman than Bones.

“Mr Sulu,” he says, and the name is so formal, so unusual on his tongue, he almost smiles. He’s just a kid, playing at authority and a command position, but when Hikaru locks eyes with him, he’s watching him like he believes the lie, with something like pride. It almost tricks Jim into thinking he has authority.

“I don’t care if we’re still on board. If you think you have a clear shot, you take it.”

Sulu exhales. There’s tightness in his shoulders, all the things he wants to say, to protest. Instead, he straightens up a little, and nods.

“Aye, sir,” he murmurs.

*

There are a number of things about Spock and Uhura’s kiss which turn Jim’s stomach. It’s like watching a car crash. Unlike the rest of the bridge crew, who are studiously focused on their duties, he can’t quite tear his eyes away. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see a dark-skinned woman watching them too. A Vulcan.

T’Nara?

Jim’s eyes widen as Uhura’s hand slides further down Spock’s back. In slow-motion, almost like a nightmare, she squeezes his ass. Jim’s gaze snaps to the ground, and, by the time he looks back up, the Vulcan has left the bridge. He frowns. He has a feeling he recognised her, but he didn’t get a good enough look at her face to be sure. In any case, there’s no question as to why she walked away: that display was definitely scandalous for Vulcans. For once, he thinks, the Vulcans may have a point.

Uhura steps away. She’s saying something to Spock, but Jim’s ears suddenly sound like the ocean. He’s burning up, and he desperately hopes his face isn’t red.

“Thank you, Nyota,” Spock murmurs.

Nyota.

He’s not sure why he hears that, of all things. He’s not sure why he speaks, either.

“So. Her name’s Nyota?” He asks, blankly. Three years and five months on from their first meeting in the Riverside bar, and it never once occurred to him to ask her boyfriend what it was.

“I have no comment on the matter,” Spock says.

Of course not, Jim thinks. His heart clenches. This whole time, he realises, ‘Nyoto’ was an inside joke. He wonders if it was at his expense.

“Ready for transport, sir,” Scotty gives him a thumbs up, and Chekhov counts down from five.

This is it. Jim takes a deep breath, and glances around the bridge one final time. Sulu sets his jaw, and looks down at the controls.

“Alright!” Scotty says. “If the design of this ship has any sense to it, I should be putting you in the cargo bay. There shouldn’t be anyone about.”

Jim glances at Spock, who raises an eyebrow at him, as the two of them dissolve into trails of shimmering starlight.

*

Uhura notices T’Nara watching them from the turbolift, and tilts her head.

“Nyota,” Spock says, urgently. She frowns, and he holds his hands out to her. She takes a step onto the transporter pad without question, and he guides her hands to his waist, desiring only to be held, once, before certain death. At once, she senses his fear, the self-disgust, the almost overwhelming sense of possessiveness from the Vulcan in the corner. She turns, just enough to watch her out of the corner of her eye. T’Nara just… stares. And stares.

Uhura understands. She’s being challenged.

T’Nara doesn’t turn away, so Uhura gets closer, and squeezes Spock’s waist. He wraps her arms around her.

She can feel the burning intensity, the sheer single-mindedness of the logical gaze, and she boils with rage. Rage, for the Vulcans who didn’t want him, who rejected him, only to declare Prima Nocta when it suited them. She wants to reassure him, that he owes them nothing. She turns back, to the scared, too-human eyes of her fake boyfriend, and is struck by an overwhelming urge to shield him from the Vulcan’s gaze. She pushes herself up on her tiptoes, and raises her eyebrows at Spock. His eyes dart towards T’Nara, like a hunted animal, and Uhura places a hand on his cheek. Turns his face gently back to hers.

“Look at me,” she whispers. Her eyes flash defiantly, and a glimmer of understanding pass through his. In that moment; although there’s no Vulcan for news to travel to, no Amanda for Spock to reassure, no one to prove anything to but T’Nara, Uhura leans into Spock, and kisses him with all she’s got. A single, trapped breath tickles her upper lip, and she smiles against him as he replies in kind. For an instant, her eyes flit back to T’Nara. Their eyes meet, and Uhura channels all her smugness, all her possessiveness, right back at her. ‘He’s mine,’ she thinks, though, really, what she meant to say was, he’s his. Spock places a hand on her jaw, demanding her attention, and she finally stops side-eyeing T’Nara, instead opening her mouth wider against Spock’s. The chaste kiss- and all the sweetness, all the innocence- is gone, and she’s left with a burning, empty hunger. She’s struck by the urge to do something truly obscene, not just by vulcan standards, but human, too. She presses her nose against Spock’s, as he tilts his head, and continues to kiss her, messily.

‘Spock,’ she thinks. Their proximity is more than enough to allow for strong touch-telepathy, and he senses her plan.

‘Yes,’ he replies.

It’s all the permission she needs, and she slides her hands back down to his waist, tucking her thumbs into the waistband of his trousers as she pays particular attention to the corner of his lips. His emotions flood her, a determined sort of embarrassment, and she moves one of her hands just a little bit lower. The way they’re angled, no one on the bridge can see it but T’Nara.

Uhura squeezes his ass.

He separates from her, briefly, a dazed look on his face, and she slides her hands back to waist again with a coy smile. She can’t tell which of the Vulcans looks more shocked, but she’ll take a wild guess. She kisses him again, channelling all her fear, and anger, and worry, and finds that Spock doesn’t have an antidote to those; just the same questions, in equal measure. It doesn’t matter.

She has no idea if he’s going to survive, but the kiss feels like a goodbye. The final act of a play whose audience have long since departed. She reaches for his face, and runs her hands over it for the final time. Inquisitive fingers stroke the tips of his ears, and lips part from lips as he presses his forehead to hers. She blinks her eyes open, and his dark eyes glisten as he stares back at her.

“I will be back,” he assures her.

She indulges herself in the hug for just a moment longer. Grips his shoulders.

“You’d better be,” she replies. She wants to add more. A joke, perhaps. That all of this will have been for nothing if he doesn’t get back safely. That she didn’t blow her chances with Christine Chapel just to end up with a dead fake-ex-lover and pissed-off Vulcan rival.

Instead, she gives him a peck on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Spock.’ She thinks. ‘I want credit for the break up.’

‘This, I can grant you,’ he thinks, and releases her from the embrace.

With that, their pact is over.

“Thank you, Nyota,” he says aloud. His eyes twinkle at her. She steps back from the transporter pad, and belatedly realises there’s someone else on it.

James Kirk.

She glances at him, and shoots him a mysterious smile. As she walks away, she hears them talk.

“So. Her name’s Nyota?” Jim asks.

“I have no comment on the matter,” Spock replies.

She smiles to herself, and takes a seat at the communications desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses the tip of a pointed ear leaving the bridge, and her stomach jolts.

The turbolift doors close.

Chapter Text

The second they materialise, a phaser bolt narrowly misses Jim’s ear. Oh come on, he thinks. He’s still reeling from watching his first officer play tongue hockey on the transporter pad. He at least thought he’d have a moment to clear his-

He hits the floor with a grunt.

“It would appear this is not the engine room,” Spock says, on top of him. Too close.

“No,” Jim agrees, breathlessly. Spock rolls off him, and tugs him upright by the elbow, in one swift motion. “Thanks,” he murmurs. Spock releases him, and they sprint for better cover, as the Romulans begin shouting around them. “D’you think they spotted us?” Jim cracks, and Spock raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, I believe they have.”

Jim flinches as another phaser gets too close for comfort, and Spock tugs him out of the way. “You’ve gotta stop saving me like this,” he mutters, and Spock gives him that look again.

“Do you propose I allow you to perish?”

“I-” Jim rolls his eyes, and beckons him forwards. “Come on. This way.”

*

James stuns a Romulan with face tattoos who’s coming in the opposite direction, and Spock takes a hesitant step forwards.

“Go ahead. I’ll cover you,” James murmurs, and Spock frowns. So far, the Captain has narrowly avoided seven phaser blasts, two of which he would certainly have succumbed to without Spock’s intervention.

“Are you certain?” He asks. The Captain has been distracted ever since he stepped onto the transporter pad, and he can’t figure out the root cause of it. Could it just be nerves? He attempts to bridge the fragile bond between them, but it seems James is finally employing the techniques Spock showed him a few days ago, and blocking access to his thoughts.

“Yeah,” James says, not meeting his eyes.

There’s no time to dwell on it. Spock moves forwards, crouching beside the stunned Romulan, and places a hand to his head. Distantly, he’s aware of a phaser bolt flying past his head, as James provides a barrage of counter-fire.

Spock hesitates, and inclines his head.

The cargo bay. Spock Prime’s ship. An areas with a raised platform, covered by water-

James crouches beside him. “Do you know where it is? The black hole device?”

Spock’s eyes snap open. “And Captain Pike.”

*

Inside Prime’s ship, Spock hesitates as he looks over the controls.

“You'll be able to fly this thing, right?” Jim asks.

Spock raises an eyebrow, and Jim claps him on the shoulder. “Good luck.” He turns away, but Spock catches him by the wrist.

“Jim.”

Heart jittering more than it has any right to, he turns, with a hopeful expression.

“The statistical likelihood that our plan will succeed is less than four point three percent.”

“Yeah, well-” James glances to the cargo bay. “I’ll buy you some time.”

Spock hesitates, and releases his arm. “In the event that I do not return, please tell Lieutenant Uhura-”

“Spock! It'll work.” He gives him a sad smile. “Think positive, remember?”

“Very well.” Spock holds a hand out to him, and Jim looks down. A handshake. He frowns at Spock. He looks in his eyes There’s trust there, and a strange invitation. He looks to the hand. Though it’s probably the most foolish thing he’ll do all day, he takes it.

The world tilts on its axis. He knows what it means to touch hands with a Vulcan, and, while not always equivalent to a kiss, it’s not nothing. The memory of Spock and Uhura on the bridge is still fresh in his mind, so he knows this can’t be a kiss, and yet, something electric jumps between them. Something intense, all-consuming, and powerful. He gasps, as comforting fingers move over his. The conflicting feelings are just too much, and he stumbles backwards. He almost forgets where they are for a moment.

“Okay,” he whispers. There’s soft amusement in Spock’s eyes, and the too-white walls of the ship are suddenly blinding. He darts out of the ship, sneaking back down the loading ramp, and then, he runs to the end of the cargo bay.

He climbs to the top of a walkway, and yells.

“Nero! Order your men to disable the drill, or I’ll- uh!” Something large falls on him, and he goes down. He curses, tries to kick the figure off, but they pin him to the floor. He looks up into a heavily tattooed face.

It’s the Romulan Spock melded with earlier. Vulcanoids must recover from phaser stuns faster than Jim had anticipated, and the Romulan looks none-too-happier for being taken out.

“Thank you, Ayel,” says Nero’s calm voice.

“Get- off-!” Jim jerks, but Ayel holds him down easily.

Nero’s face looms into view, and he smiles coldly. “James T Kirk.”

Ayel tightens his vice-like grip on James’ arm, and he grunts. “How come every time-travelling asshole knows me?”

Nero crouches down, and tilts his head. For a moment, his glittering dark eyes look terribly Spock-like, and Jim struggles harder, trying to keep their attention on him and not The Jellyfish.

“I know your face from Earth's history,” Nero says. He reaches for Jim’s face, and he jerks away.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I’m not going to touch you,” Nero says, calmly.

Ayel reaches for Jim’s face, and his eyes widen in realisation. He thrashes, but more Romulans take his arms and legs, holding him still. Jim breathes heavily.

“It was good of you to come to us, Captain Kirk. Christopher was being so stubborn with the details of the defence codes, and it would be remiss of us to arrive at Earth without them.”

“You’re wasting your ti-” Jim cries out, and throws his head back as cold hands connect with his temple.

The biting is back. The unrelenting pressure of tongue on tongue, lips on lips. Jim’s breath stutters. Dark, brown coils, delicate reams of soft hair. She’s light, yet Janice pins him down easily.

He doesn’t struggle. Janice’s wrath comes not from her strength, but from her words. He never wants to risk offending her, always asking permission to touch and hold, a courtesy which she never returns.

I’m being held down by Romulans, Jim thinks. He kicks out ferociously, and Ayel bares his teeth. Shiny, white points swim before his vision, and- Jim’s back on Tarsus, struggling against a single guard as they carry him away from the greenhouse. He can see the greenhouse over the guard’s shoulder, and they turn away, round a corner, and over the idyllic meadows of New Anchorage. Jim bites the guard’s hand, quick, teeth snapping just long enough to catch him by surprise.

He wriggles from his grasp, landing on grass so soft he almost bounces. He rolls, and stands. For a split second, he considers running for the dome- to try to save everyone, to play at being a hero. But then, he turns in the other direction.

He runs. Runs and runs and runs, until the town’s in sight. Back to the too-full embassy, which is now too-empty, empty, empty, empty-

Jim gasps, and writhes. His face is wet, but he can’t wipe it away; his arms are weighed down by lead. Sleep paralysis? No. Something worse. He resurfaces for a moment, and dark eyes bore into him as he goes back under.

Jim has been paralysed too many times to count.

Gaila, Janice, Spock, Ayel, Kodos-

‘You’re weak. All these people held you down with nothing more than a single thought.’

The nerve pinch. Waking on Delta Vega. Spock carrying him to the waiting room after the simulation. The Kobayashi Maru. Dying, over and over again.

‘Please.’ Jim thinks. ‘Please, stop.’

‘Tell me the codes to disable Earth’s defence systems,’ Ayel responds.

‘There are no codes!’

‘Liar.’

Bones kissing him, over and over. That wasn’t real, Jim wants to scream, but he can’t. It was just a dream. This isn’t real, it never happened, it isn’t-

He hyperventilates, his heart thumping loud in his ears. Imagine you are building a wall, he remembers Spock’s voice. Both Spocks.

Brick by brick takes too long: unlike Spock, Ayel is not interested in obeying the Keep Out signs. Jim takes a deep breath, and pulls his hand back. He’s standing on a sparring mat, falling, slowly. Before he reaches the ground, he slams his hand forwards. It glances off an invisible wall, a force field, a-

Glass dome.

He inhales, and takes a step back from the glass. Ayel paces on the other side of it, his voice muffled, and Jim looks around. Epsilons . All of them. The last survivors of a dead colony, founded by veterans of a war against The Romulans. In five minutes, they’ll all be dead.

“You know you’re not safe in there, James,” Ayel’s voice comes over the tannoy.

“Your continued existence presents a threat to the more valuable members of-”

‘No!’ Jim wills the surroundings to change, and he’s back at Starfleet Academy. It’s night time in Greenhouse Three, but there are no fireworks this time. It’s empty. Peaceful. The lights are off.

“James Kirk,” Spock says, and Jim turns. His face is illuminated by moonlight. He looks older, somehow. A memory, perhaps. Something he saw in Prime’s brain.

“This,” Spock holds two fingers out to him, “Is how Vulcans kiss.”

The name jumps to the forefront of his mind. Ozh’esta.

He reaches out, and joins their fingers together, a tangle of nerves and tension. It feels like candlelight, flickering at the edge of his senses. Spock is warm, and familiar, and home, and a whole slew of Vulcan words without direct translation. Ashayam. T’hy’la. He knows the meaning with a painful clarity, of course; painful because-

“Find someone to love you,” Gaila whispers behind him. He turns, but she isn’t there. Instead, Ayel stands in the flowerbed, a wicked grin on his face, as he holds a lit match.

“No. This is how Vulcans kiss,” Ayel whispers, as he tosses the match. As it falls, it illuminates two figures in the dark. Jim’s heart clenches.

Spock kisses Uhura, passionately, with a ferocity he didn’t think Vulcans were capable of, but-

‘It’s true. You’ve seen it,’ Ayel says.

‘It’s not real. This is a dream. This is a-’

Nightmare. And Jim has never been able to control those.

The match falls, and sets light to the vegetation around it, until the floor of the greenhouse is aflame. Spock and Uhura never look up, but they begin gasping for breath, finding solace in each other’s lungs.

The smoke trips the fire alarm, which, in turn, triggers the sprinklers, but no water falls from the ceiling. Instead, there’s a hiss, and a strange mist descends, consuming the plants faster than any flame ever could. Jim starts, and examines the dispensers more closely.

Atomic dispersers.

By the time he realises, it’s too late to run. He stands, paralysed, and watches as Uhura and Spock shred slowly, still kissing as the world crumbles around them.

The stench of ozone is like choking on perfume. His lungs burn. This Spock will never love him back. Everything he saw- everything Prime had- is locked in another universe. He watches his hand disintegrate.

In an era of transporters, fast-transit and replicators, everyone knows what it means to dissolve. Matter is intangible, replaceable, and abundant.

But people from Tarsus never had anyone to piece them back together.

Blinking tears from his eyes, he lies on his back.

“He doesn’t know the codes.”

He takes a ragged breath. Spock, he thinks, weakly. Fingers dig into his skin, and Ayel turns to Nero. “Spock has taken the red matter. Kirk was a distraction.”

“No.” He tries to sit up, but Ayel lays a hand across his chest. The other Romulans have let go; Jim is shaking too much to put up a fight. Spock, he thinks, again. Blow up this whole damn ship if you have to. It may be his imagination, but he thinks he can feel Spock’s mind responding to his, listening politely with an attentive calmness. Ayel finally withdraws, standing, and Jim lies panting on the floor.

Nero watches him with cold eyes. “Take Kirk to Pike. Once we’ve disposed of Spock and The Enterprise, perhaps he will encourage Pike to cooperate.”

Jim attempts to glower at him as Ayel drags him away. His legs tremble, but he keeps walking, unable to bear the ignominy of being assisted. Eventually, they come to a flooded area at the very edge of the cargo bay, which is evidently being used as a brig. Pike is lying on his back on a raised metal platform with makeshift restraints, though he’s been freed from them for now.

The man’s in no position to be making a break for it.

“Captain?” Panic rises in his chest as he approaches the too-still body. No, no, no, no-

Pike’s eyes flutter open, give him a bleary stare, and close again. He makes a small sound which could be interpreted as “What are you doing here?”

“You ordered us to come and get you, remember?” He says, gently, as he sits on the edge of the platform, beside Pike.

Pike grunts. “’S’t goin’ well?”

“Yeah,” Jim says, too-brightly. His hands tremble as he rolls him into the recovery position, and he pulls off his own command-gold shirt. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

“Gud do no.” Pike spits a mouthful of blood out, weakly. Jim winces, and dabs at the corner of his mouth with the shirt. “Debe’s bo boint-” Pike tries to protest, but Jim shushes him.

“Don’t worry.” He tries to keep his hands steady as he mops at Pike’s bloody nose. “They’re not going to torture us unless Spock dies.”

“Until he dies,” Ayel snaps.

“You first, asshole,” Jim mutters. Judging by the tracks of blood on either side of Pike’s face, Pike’s ears were bleeding, too, but his hearing doesn’t seem impaired-

Ayel slams the butt of his disruptor into Jim’s head, and he pitches forwards, breathing heavily. Tears spring to his eyes.

Pike touches his wrist lightly. The slightest shake of his head. Without opening his eyes, he raises his voice enough for Ayel to hear. “I thought Vulcans practised emotional control.”

“Captain...” Jim warns, as he massages the base of his skull.

“That side of me perished with the planet,” Ayel hisses.

Jim bites back a retort. If he receives another blow to the head, he’ll be unable to help Pike, who has gone very still. The grip on Jim’s wrist drops away, the last of his strength spent, and Jim pulls his unconscious body to his chest. After a moment’s hesitation, he wraps his arms around him protectively, and rests his head against the wall. His medical expertise isn’t great, but something tells him ‘heavy bleeding from the nose, ears and mouth’ is the type of thing which would make Bones unhappy. “Hold on, Captain,” he whispers.

*

“The Farragut must have weakened The Narada’s shields,” Chekhov says. “If we fire at the drill now, we might be able to destroy it.”

Sulu sets his jaw. “Do it.”

Uhura holds her breath. They fire a photon torpedo, which hits the side of the ship.

The drill drops away, and she checks her console. “Communications functions restored!” She punches the connection, and leans forwards a litle. “Spock, what are you doing?”

“The drill is only temporarily disabled.”

“You’re on a collision course.”

“I am aware.”

Uhura gestures to Sulu wildly, and he gestures to Scotty.

“What?” Scotty asks.

“Are the transporters up?” Sulu asks.

“Aye…” Scotty says. “I’ve got a lock on Kirk… And Pike!”

“And Spock?” Uhura asks.

“… Nearly...”

They watch in tense silence as Spock’s ship gets closer to The Narada. Her hand tightens on the edge of a console, and she inhales.

Come on, Spock, she thinks.

“… Mister Scott?!” She glares towards the transporter controls, as Keenser hides behind Scotty with a squeak.

“I’ve got a lock on him, but I cannae guarantee-”

“Do it!”

Sulu checks the progress of the collision course, and leans across his console. “Do it, now!” He locks eyes with Uhura, and the two of them turn their attention to the transporter pad, with baited breath.

*

“I've got your gun,” Jim says.

“I can see that,” Ayel growls. “I don’t believe you’re going to use it.”

“Come any closer, and I will.” Jim shoulders it.

Ayel glowers at him. “You’ll die with us.”

“Maybe,” Jim says.

There’s an explosion outside as Spock’s ship crashes into The Narada.

“Or, maybe, I was waiting for our transporter functions to become operational.”

An angry yell. Ayel lunges for them. Jim fires.

The world dissolves into tiny yellow stars.

Chapter Text

“Ha!” Declares Scott. “I’ve never beamed three people from two different targets onto one pad before!”

Jim searches the transporter pad frantically, and locks eyes with Spock. Tension drops from his shoulders as he smiles at him.

Scott frowns at the screen, and glances at Jim’s phaser. “Apparently, the weapon discharged at the moment of transport, Captain-?”

“Must have been an accident,” Jim declares, as he drops the disruptor with a clatter. Spock raises an eyebrow at him, and he looks away. Before anyone thinks to persue the matter, Pike sags against them with a faint whimper.

They move as one, grabbing him by the arms as Bones runs onto the bridge. “I’ve got him.” He gestures to the stretcher behind him, pulled by two security officers. They help Pike onto it, and he closes his eyes, dead to the world.

“Captain, the enemy ship is losing power,” Chekhov says. “Their shields are down, sir.”

“Hail them now.”

“Aye, sir.” Uhura moves quickly, and the faces of Ayel and Nero appear onscreen.

“This is Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. Your ship is compromised. You’re too close to the singularity to escape without assistance- which we are willing to provide.”

“Captain.” Spock turns slightly, and Jim copies him. “What are you doing?” Spock asks, quietly.

“Offering them clemency. It may be the only way to make peace with the Romulans.”

Spock turns back to the viewscreen. He fixes his eyes on Ayel. The half-Romulan stares back at him, and then, very slowly, bares his teeth.

“It’s logical, Spock. I thought you’d like that.”

Spock purses his lips. “No, not this time,” he says.

Jim hesitates, but, when he looks back at Nero, the decision is made for him.

“I would rather suffer the end of Romulus ten times over than be helped by you,” Nero spits.

James sets his jaw. “That can be arranged.”

They watch as The Narada folds in on itself, collapsing under its own gravity. The singularity disappears just as soon as it formed, and Spock staggers.

“Spock!” This time, Jim catches him, and doesn’t let go. This time, the chorus of distressed Vulcans, while not completely eliminated, is diminished in his head. The burden is easier to bear. Spock sinks into his arms.

“Spock. Are you OK?”

“Affirmative.” He thinks of Ayel. Of all the half-Vulcan hybrids there are likely to be in the future. “He was… in my head,” he murmurs, and rests his head on Jim's chest.

Ayel is one of billions of deaths Spock has experienced in the last few days, but it gives him a sort of clarity. There will be others like Ayel. Angry. Unfocused. Unguided. He has to make his death mean something. As the realisation strikes him, he pulls away from Jim.

His path is clear.

He has to leave Starfleet.

*

Spock moves his queen, and Jim raises an eyebrow at him.

“That’s a bold stance, Spock,” he murmurs, as he gets his own queen out. “Are you sure you can follow through?”

Spock remains impassive, and deftly moves a knight into position behind it. Jim narrows his eyes, and weighs up the cost of sacrificing his own queen this early in the game.

“Jim,” Spock says. “There is a matter I need to discuss with you.

“Go ahead,” Jim says, as he takes Spock’s queen with his own.

Spock tilts his head. “That was a highly irregular move.”

Jim sticks his tongue out, and leans forwards. “What were you going to say?”

Spock takes the queen with his knight. “Ayel. The Romulan on Nero’s ship-”

“The one with the face tattoos,” Jim says. He massages his throat. “I remember.”

Spock’s eyes linger on the movement. He looks away. “He was half-Vulcan.”

Jim’s other hand, about to pick up a bishop, pause over the board. “Ah,” he says. He thumbs the bishop for a moment, before selecting one of his knights instead.

“I saw the future of one half-Vulcan, and it was less than exemplary. For many years, I have been the only one of my… kind.” He frowns as Jim finally places his knight down. “That is a most illogical move,” he comments.

“Thank you.” Jim clasps his hands together. “I assume Ayel was the first half-Vulcan you’ve met. Other than yourself.”

“- It was not a compliment.”

“I know.”

“Hmm.” Spock counter-moves. “Yes. Temporal incidents notwithstanding, I am the only half-Vulcan in existence. It was… painful to consider the similarities between us.” He blinks at the chess board again. “Your approach to chess-”

“It all lies in distraction,” Jim spins the captive piece in his hand.

He tilts his head. “I infer this is why you dislike playing chess against the computer?”

“Well, that’s the point. It’s impossible to beat the computer, so chess has… evolved.”

“But chess is a game of logic. Ergo, the most logical way to win is to play like a computer,” Spock insists.

“Perhaps. But men, Mr Spock-” he takes one of his pawns. “Are fallible.”

Spock glances at the knight, and glances back at the pawn, still clutched in Jim’s hand. His frown deepens.

“I believe we can all be grateful, Jim, that you do not Captain a starship as recklessly as you play chess.” He takes the knight with one of his pawns.

Jim hides a smirk. “So. You were the only one of your kind, and now...” He moves his other knight into play. “There are two of you.”

“I was not thinking of Ambassador Selek, but all the half-Vulcan children there are likely to be in the future. If the survival of our race is to be ensured, it is necessary, but I do not believe that our society is ready to accept them.” He looks down. “If I had had a mentor who was like me, my own childhood might have been… easier.” He reaches towards a pawn. In light of this...” He moves it forwards two places. “It is only logical that I resign my commission to Starfleet, and help rebuild our race.”

Jim’s heart races. Spock, return to the planet of people who had shunned him for so long? As long as the survivors remain on The Enterprise, he can see how uncomfortable Spock is. Knows in his heart that it will only make him unhappy to return there. He inhales, and moves one of his own pawns forwards a place.

“...But, you can be in two places at once,” Jim says.

“It would be a heavy burden to place on him. I cannot assume-”

“- Then it would be a heavy burden to place on yourself!”

Spock inclines his head. “That was not what I meant.” He leaves a sufficiently long pause for Jim to hear the subtext. Vulcans can not lie. Therefore, Spock expects him to believe, despite allusions to his difficult childhood, despite being reduced to tears on the bridge, that he is emotionally detached from this. “Ambassador Spock is old, Jim.” He moves the rook into the space created by the pawn. Not far, not yet, but enough that it will pose a threat. Having anticipated the move, Jim moves his bishop forward a place.

“Exactly. Ambassador Spock… he may be older than you, but he’s been through this before. He’s seen our future-” Jim stops himself. I have been, and always will be your friend. A marriage on the sands of Vulcan. There are certain things which will never be in he and Spock’s future. “- He’s seen a version of the future. One where half-Vulcans- and half-Romulans- are a common occurrence.”

“Jim...” Spock is playing white, which means Jim is on the defensive. And the best defence is a good offence.

“- Why don’t we just ask him?” Jim suggests. He reaches for the communicator, and Spock’s shoulders tighten. “Captain Kirk to the bridge. Could you ask Ambassador Selek to come and see me in my quarters, please?”

“Aye, sir.” Uhura’s voice.

He narrows his eyes. “You’re still on duty? Get some rest before Bones chases you down with a hypospray.”

“… Aye, sir,” Uhura laughs. “But tell Spock: I don’t think either of you are any safer in there as long as you’re not sleeping.” She disconnects.

“Hmm,” Jim says. Spock takes the opportunity to move his rook one square to the left. Jim’s fingers twitch around the bishop.

When Spock Prime enters the room, he surveys the board for a moment. “He will have you beaten within three moves,” he informs his counterpart.

Spock stirs. His eyes dart around the chessboard, and his eyebrows furrow. He castles his king out of danger, and examines Jim through his eyelashes. “It would seem your illogical approach to chess has its advantages.”

Jim glares at Prime. “Don’t warn him! I didn’t bring you here so you could throw off my chess game.”

Prime watches him fondly. “I apologise, Jim. I will not give my counterpart any more advice.”

“Good; then I still stand a chance of winning.”

With a small shake of his head, Spock glues his gaze on the board. “I will simply not allow myself to get distracted.”

“James Kirk is a singularly distracting man,” Prime says.

“- I do have other talents,” Jim protests.

“Check,” Spock murmurs.

Jim curses. He examines the board, and glances at Prime. “Let me guess...”

“Three moves,” Prime agrees.

Jim almost misses the younger Spock’s smirk. He glances up at Prime. “You told me earlier, you had already decided on a suitable colony planet for New Vulcan.” He moves the bishop in-between the King and the rook. “So, just to clarify… Not only do you intend to remain on New Vulcan, but you’re heading up the efforts to resettle it.”

“Correct.”

“Interesting.” He inclines his head at Spock, whose eyes are still determinedly fixed on the board.

“I would have offered my services apprehending Nero, but I surmised you had it under control.”

Jim chuckles. “So, you’ll agree, there is a logical precedent for Spock to fulfil his duty to Starfleet before New Vulcan?”

Prime nods. “More than that, our people would lose much from his absence in Starfleet.”

Spock looks up sharply. “The most logical way forward is for me to contribute to the genepool.”

“But you could do that from the ship,” Jim says, thinking of Uhura.

For some reason, both Spocks raise their eyebrows, but it is Prime who speaks. He turns to the younger. “While it is true that half-Vulcan- and yes, even half-human- Vulcans are the way forwards, there is no pressing need for your contribution. Human genes can undoubtedly be sourced from... Elsewhere.”

He glances at Jim with- amusement? Jim ducks his head. “Yes, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of volunteers,” he murmurs. He examines the board closely. “So, it’s settled, then.” he takes Spock’s rook with his queen. “You’re staying.”

Spock glances at Prime, then back down at the board. “Yes, I believe I am.” He takes Kirk’s queen.

Jim smirks, and moves his knight. Once removed, his bishop has a clear line to the king. “Check,” Jim says. Spock’s eyes widen as he examines the board. The one place he could move his king out of check is covered by the knight. Jim has him cornered. “… And mate.”

*

The corridor outside is dim, but at least three Vulcans walk past in the time it takes to drag Spock inside her quarters. Uhura sits Spock down at a small desk, and studies his face.

“What’s troubling you?” She asks, gently.

Spock frowns. “How did you-?”

“You’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

Spock glances down at his blue shirt, which still bears dried green bloodstains. “Fascinating,” he murmurs.

“Can’t sleep?”

He inclines his head. “The Vulcans are still… restless. As is the Captain,” he says, quietly. “I initially thought it was due to our bond, and he was merely considering the implications of my intention to leave Starfleet and travel to New Vulcan, but I have since decided to remain-”

“Back up,” Uhura blinks. “Bond? What? Does he know about this?”

“Even among psi-null individuals, it is generally considered impossible to be unaware of-”

“Spock.”

“Yes. He is aware.”

Uhura sits back in her chair, and quickly reviews their interactions over the past few days. The stunned looks both T’Nara and Kirk had shot her on the transporter pad. The transporter pad. In all the subsequent excitement, she’d forgotten he was there. She takes a deep breath. “Are you sure?”

Spock tilts his head. “It is possible he was mistaken about the true nature of our… arrangement, but-”

Uhura groans, and sticks her head in her hands. “You’ve got to tell him, Spock. The last thing he saw was- a vulgar display, not just by Vulcan standards.”

Spock blinks. “But that was the moment we terminated our relationship.”

“It was a telepathic break-up. He can’t see everything, despite your bond, right?”

“No...” Spock’s eyes widen. “He believes we are-” He gets to his feet quickly. “Thank you, Nyota,” he says, haltingly.

“Go,” she ushers him out of the door. “And lose the shirt.”

The door closes with a mechanical squeak.

Uhura rubs a hand across her forehead. “You can come out now,” she says.

The bathroom door opens, to reveal Christine with her eyebrows arched, hands on her hips. “What the hell was that about?” She asks.

*

While searching for a quiet space to meditate, Sarek finds his son curled around Captain Kirk. He stops in the doorway, and watches them for a moment. It has been a long time since he last watched Spock sleep, and he looks every bit as young as he did seven years ago, on Vulcan. He turns to the observation window, and looks out at the inky black. Never again will he see the sun set on red sands. There are other planets. Other deserts. But they will never be home. An illogical sentiment, perhaps, but the events of the past few days have taken their toll.

Spock opens his eyes. Human eyes. Amanda’s eyes. They have Sarek’s pigment, but all of her expressiveness.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude,” Sarek says.

“You are not.” His arm shifts almost imperceptibly around the Captain, and Sarek takes a step forwards. The door slides shut behind him, drowning the light from the corridor. He raises an eyebrow, and Spock nods, once, so he approaches. After a moment, he sits on the floor beside them. The Captain is pressed against his chest, breathing peacefully, so Sarek keeps his voice soft.

“T’Nara is labouring under the impression you were engaged in a romantic relationship with lieutenant Uhura. I assured her she was mistaken,” he says, haltingly, as Spock frowns. “I knew that the Captain and yourself were t’hy’lara-”

“Father,” Spock breathes, sharply.

Kirk stirs, probably disquieted by the telepathic outburst, and Sarek raises a hand. “The Captain himself discussed it with me.”

“The Captain was not aware of the significance of our bond until earlier this evening,” he says, stiffly.

“He was not aware of it at the time. Evidently, that has changed.”

Spock sits up a little straighter.

“However, T’Nara observed you and lieutenant Uhura on the transporter platform, engaging in-”

“Father. I am not engaged in a romantic relationship with Uhura.”

Sarek frowns. “The emotional outbursts on this ship have been most unusual, but to think that it would lead T’Nara to be deliberately dishonest-”

“She was not dishonest,” Spock sighs. “For the past week, Uhura and I attempted to create the impression that we were bondmates.”

Sarek’s eyebrow twitches. “Explain.”

Spock does. The Pon Farr. Amanda’s worry. The unwanted attention from T’Nara.

Sarek is silent for a while, and, finally, he smiles. “Although the charade was for your mother’s benefit… I do believe she would have found it… humorous. Nevertheless, the deception would have concerned her.”

“And not you?”

Sarek considers. “Perhaps.”

Spock’s eyes flick to the observation window. “I did not want you to worry,” he says.

Sarek watches the Captain for a moment, then looks back to Spock. “You are my son. I will always worry.”

Spock huffs, and Sarek suspects it is actually a laugh. He closes his eyes for a moment. He’ll miss that sound, he realises, now that Amanda is gone.

As if in a trance, he reaches a hand out, and begins to pet Spock’s hair. He freezes.

“What are you doing?” Spock whispers.

“It is… logical to take over the role your mother used to fill,” Sarek covers. Spock’s face twitches, and he watches it for any sign of protest, but sees only flickers of that earlier amusement.

He is laughing at him.

Sarek ignores it, and traces the shell of Spock’s ear, the sloping tips. ‘He has your ears,’ Amanda had said, when Spock was born, but she was incorrect. Although he has the pointed tips typical of Vulcans, Sarek’s earlobes are attached, and Spock’s are not. As with all things, Spock has Amanda’s looks, with only superficial acknowledgements of Sarek. Enough to mark him as his son. Enough to mark him as Vulcan. Never enough to protect him from those who saw him as different.

“Perhaps,” Spock says, more soberly, “It would have been logical, even while she lived.”

Sarek’s hand stills. Amanda was fascinated by Spock’s ears, more so than she had ever been with Sarek’s. Perhaps she, too, knew they were hers.

“Perhaps,” Sarek acknowledges, finally. He feels, rather than discerns, Spock’s shame, and it makes him all the more reluctant to break physical contact. Even now, his son is shielding from him. He pulls his hand away. “I acknowledge I may not have been the best father,” he murmurs.

“You wanted to raise me according to Vulcan tradition,” Spock says. Sarek notices it is not quite a rebuttal.

“You believe all Vulcans are bad fathers?” Sarek tilts his head.

“Do you?” Spock asks.

Sarek hesitates. “I also raised your brother in accordance with Vulcan tradition,” he says. A quiet acknowledgement. They do not discuss Sybok beyond that, though there is one tenant central to Sybok’s philosophy which all parents, no matter how logical, want for their kids.

“You will be happy?” Sarek murmurs.

Spock blinks at him. “The match is logical. And, should I go through Pon Farr, I will have a bondmate.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Spock looks to the ceiling, a gesture Sarek almost recognises as rolling his eyes. Then, he looks back to Kirk.

“Yes,” he says, quietly. “I will.”

Chapter Text

For their own safety, Doctor McCoy doesn’t want anyone who’s ‘critically injured’ to beam down to Earth, a list that apparently includes Pike and Kirk. Personally, Uhura suspects that the Doctor just hates transporters, because he’s the first to take a seat, looking slightly green.

“Uhura?” Jim frowns, as they all pile into the shuttle. “Did Bones include half the bridge crew on his list?”

“Something like that,” Uhura smiles, as she takes a seat next to Chrissy. Spock files in after them, talking to M’Benga quietly. Behind them, there’s a clank as feet pummel the boarding ramp.

“Road trip!” Sulu declares.

“Star trip,” Chekhov corrects.

“Well, at the speed we’ll be travelling, it’s more like a star trek.”

At the front of the shuttle, Leonard groans.

Upon landing, Leonard runs off, looking a little sea-sick, and Christine accompanies him.

As everyone stands around talking, Uhura notices a dishevelled figure just outside the shuttle bay, waving to her.

“Garn?”

The figure disappears.

She rolls her eyes, and hurries out of the bay. “Garn?” She asks, shielding her eyes from the noon-day sunlight.

“Over here,” a bush hisses.

“Garn, what are you doing?”

“I’m not strictly meant to be on campus.”

“This is a Starfleet launch centre.”

“Right." He emerges, and beckons her closer. "I’m not meant to be anywhere within fifty feet of a Starfleet base.”

“Oh.” A bird calls somewhere behind them in the distance, and her face softens. “Where will you go?”

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs. “Harvard Law?” He chuckles, and reaches into his shoulder bag. “I’ve got something for you.” He tosses it to her; a swirl of purple. She catches it.

It chirps.

“Nyoto?!” She lifts him to her face, and brushes her cheek against the soft fur. In an instant, her shoulders drop, releasing tension she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “But... how?” She weighs him in her hand, and eyes Garn suspiciously. “What’s the catch?” She says.

“Hey!” Garn raises his hands. “The whole... replicating thing shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“Shouldn’t-?”

“Won’t be.” He gives her two, unconvincing thumbs up.

“Hmm.” She cradles the tribble. “I’m going to pretend this is a thoughtful gift," she hums, as she hugs him loosely. “Stay out of trouble.”

As she trails back to her dorm, a sleepy afternoon breeze tugs at her hair. When she gets back to the room, everything is as she left it. Untouched. She can almost imagine that Vulcan is still in the sky, light years away. It’s too far to see, touch, or feel, but somehow, she imagines she felt some fleeting connection to it; now severed.

She steps into the room-

Crunch.

She lifts her shoe from the shattered remains of the glass tank. With the distress call, she’d been in such a rush to leave that she hadn’t had time to clean it up. She sighs. It all feels like days ago now. “Look at the mess you made,” she chides Nyoto. The tribble, predictably, says nothing.

She sets him on the desk, and pokes him sternly. “Stay there." She reaches for her PADD, steels herself, and calls Christine.

“This isn’t the best time.” Christine winces. The sounds of vomiting fills the background, and she sighs. "Really, Uhura, I’m flattered, but it’s only been, what, five minutes since we saw each other?” Christine tuts.

“- I know. Do you have a glass tank I could borrow? Or a cage; really. Anything left over from exobiology will do.”

“I haven’t had the chance to unpack yet. How big are we talking?”

“Tribble-sized.”

“Trib-?! You don’t mean you’ve brought one back on campus after that stunt Gareth pulled?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause.

“Alright,” Christine says. “I’ll bring the tank.”

“Thank you,” Uhura says, with a disarming smile. They stare at each other for a moment. Offscreen, Leonard makes a distressed sound.

“Gotta go,” Christine says.

Uhura barely has time to sweep up the glass before her PADD beeps again. She picks it up.

Message from James T Kirk.

*

“Is the embassy really large enough for all these Vulcans?” Uhura says, as they stand in the crowded foyer. T’Audre’s white eyeliner makes her already-wide eyes look wider than they are, a picture of calm surprise.

“Oh, not at all,” Jim says, “But we’ll find a way to house them all.” He hesitates for a moment, eyes searching the crowd. “They did this on Tarsus IV,” he says, softly. “Two thousand Epsilons, crowded into one town.”

Uhura purses her lips. “Yeah well, the fleet’s brought back half a million Vulcans.” She glances at Spock. While the essence of our culture has been saved in the elders who now reside upon the ship, I estimate no more than ten thousand have survived. I am now a member of an endangered species. Never before has he been so grateful to have made such a significant miscalculation.

“But San Fran is bigger than New Anchorage,” Jim points out.

Spock purses his lips. Sarek and Prime have already moved into his dorm at the academy, and each of the embassy’s fifteen rooms now accommodates upwards of ten people.

To their left, the sliding doors have been left open and there’s a crowd of young Vulcans gathered in the wide room. In the middle of the crowd stands Selnar, his robes a dark vortex in a whirlpool of colour.

“Come upstairs,” Jim says. “I have something to show you.”

The walls and ceilings of the attic have been covered by an array of sheets and blankets, all hanging from long lines of rope. Some of them are covered in Vulcan script- meditation robes, he realises- and the floor is laden with rugs and blankets. The arrangement has clearly been comprised of donated materials. Despite this, there is a pattern to the way they have been laid out: ROYGBIV. Red on the left of the room, violet on the right.

Uhura tilts her head. “They’re...”

“A spectrum.” Spock raises an eyebrow.

“A pride flag?” Uhura asks.

“A rainbow!” Jim slaps them on the back, and Spock raises an eyebrow. “T’Audre helped me get most of the fabric; and the Vulcans who are staying in the embassy helped out, too.”

“It looks like a tent city,” Uhura murmurs. “What gave you the idea?” She watches James carefully, probably considering the implications of what he said earlier. New Anchorage.

Jim touches the hem of a curtain lightly, and says nothing.

Spock places his arms behind his back. “How many Vulcans are sleeping in here?”

“About a hundred,” Jim says.

“Hmm.” Assuming the width of the room is equal to the length- a perfect square (which, considering that the embassy was designed by human architects, is unlikely)- the fabrics likely form a seven-by-seven grid, which leaves forty-nine individual cells- “There is space for two people in each sleeping space?”

“That’s right.” Jim beams at him, but Spock can’t work out why. He frowns.

Jim turns back to Uhura, and his face falls. “When I was a child, I was on-route to Earth with my mother, when she was assigned to research Epsilon III. Soil samples. She was a science officer on Starbase Six at the time,” he explains, and Uhura’s frown softens. “She tried to get to the bottom of the crop extinctions, but they didn’t know if it was safe for human habitation, so… I went to the nearest colony, where I’d be safe. Tarsus.” Uhura’s eyes widen. “I was there at the same time as...”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “You must have known some of the people who-”

“Yeah.” He looks away. “I did.” He inhales. “The attic of the Tarsan embassy was larger than this; but this was their solution for maximising space. They managed to fit a thousand people in.” He gestures to the drapes again.

“It must have been difficult to find your way around, Uhura comments.

“Oh, it was,” Jim grins. “But, that space was designed by humans. This time, the Vulcans helped to make everything more… logical.” He smiles.

“I like it,” Uhura says. “It’s IDIC.”

“Infinite Diversity In Infinite Combinations,” Spock recites, at Jim’s questioning look.

Jim contemplates them for a moment. “I just thought they were pretty,” he admits.

There are footsteps on the stairs behind them, and T’Audre takes Spock to one side to discuss housing arrangements.

*

Uhura and Kirk wander the length of the room aimlessly, and listen to the soft murmur of conversation behind them. After a moment. Jim lifts the side of a curtain, and, as Uhura goes to duck under it, he lets it fall on her head with a wicked grin. She elbows him in the side promptly, taking off through the maze of fabrics in a random pattern. He stumbles after her with a curse.

She sticks to the edge of the room, following the sunlight. Eventually, she slips behind a long curtain- dark purple, bordering on blue- which covers an alcove by the window. She tucks herself into it as best she can and sits on the window ledge.

Footsteps.

“Uhura?”

A moment later, he pulls the curtains aside, and crouches down beside her. She scoots over to make room on the window sill, and they sit shoulder-to-shoulder, quietly contemplating.

“May I ask…?” She frowns. “If you were on Tarsus at the same time as the Epsilons, then-?”

“Yes,” he whispers. “I was there.”

“But… There weren’t many survivors-?”

He slumps against her silently, and rests his head on her shoulder.

“Oh.” She folds her hands together, and thinks of a very different evening, long ago. Doing her homework while her mother listened to the news in the other room. “I remember hearing about Tarsus.” She rests a hand on the top of his head, and he exhales softly. “Seven years ago… You would have been, what, thirteen?”

He nods, and swallows slightly. “Seven years ago, going on eight,” he says, hoarsely. “Four years in therapy, and four years at the academy.”

“So, really, this...” Uhura gestures to the curtains again.

“I wanted to honour their memories,” James murmurs. “Vulcans, Tarsans, Epsilons...”

“The victims of genocides,” she whispers. In many ways, he knows how Spock feels. After a moment, she rests her head on top of his, and they sit like that for a while, in silence.

After a while, the curtain, twitches, and is pulled aside. Spock peers down at them. “Hello,” he blinks. Uhura reaches a hand out to him wordlessly. He raises an eyebrow and sinks down beside them, and they all fall into one, shared embrace.

*

Guinan is hosting fifteen Vulcans in the upstairs rooms above Lecker Koppie, all of whom insist on helping out around the cafe.

“I don’t know what to do with them all,” Guinan murmurs. “They’re very… thorough.” She nods to one of them as they sweep the floor for the third time, and turns back to Uhura with a grin. “So. How’s it going with you-know-who?”

Uhura buries her face in her hands. “Guinan. Vulcan just blew up, and you’re asking me about my dating life,” Uhura chides.

“Well, everyone else is talking about Vulcan. No one’s talking about your dating life. So, I have to ask you.”

Uhura flops against the counter. “It’s complicated.”

Guinan’s eyes are fixed on a point across the room. “It looks pretty simple to me.”

Uhura follows her gaze to the corner of the room, where Spock is sitting. From the way he’s positioned, it’s likely that he and Kirk are holding hands under the table, but she can’t be sure.

“I think...” Guinan muses. “I’ll just go and introduce myself...”

“Guinan, no! Guinan-!” Uhura chases her with her coffee cup, laughing. From behind the counter, three Vulcans watch the proceedings with wide eyes, and share a furtive glance. If any of them happen to see the Acting Captain of the Enterprise lean over the table to kiss his First Officer, they keep it to themselves.

Chapter Text

The door is already open when Jim arrives, so he pops his head round it.

“Hey, Captain,” he smiles at Pike.

“Hey, Acting Captain,” Pike replies. He readjusts himself in his wheelchair. It’s temporary, they hope, but they don’t want him walking anywhere unaided yet.

“Good morning,” Jim says to the two young Vulcans who are staying with Pike. “I’m afraid there’s going to be an emotional scene now, which might just bring the house down.”

“I assume your use of the word ‘afraid’ here is idiomatic,” T'Vena says.

“Yes,” Jim smiles at her, and she frowns.

“The structural integrity of this building is quite sound,” says Varesh, her younger brother. “I fail to see how an emotional display could generate the energy necessary to demolish it.”

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll explain later, Varesh.” He looks at Pike. “Ready, Captain?”

“… Ready for what-?”

“- Christopher Pike, you old son of a gun,” says Winona, as she steps out from behind Jim.

“Nona?!” Pike barely has time to brace himself before she throws herself on him, kissing his forehead frantically between his weak protests. “Winona-” he pulls her into a hug, and they laugh, trembling with almost enough force to bring the walls down, as promised. Jim raises an eyebrow at the young Vulcans. Varesh looks suitably alarmed, and T'Vena stares back at him, stone-faced.

“Most illogical,” she sniffs. Jim grins, and goes to join the hug.

It takes three weeks to resolve the pre-existing academic trial, the second academic trial they put him on for ignoring the first academic trial, and the third, for sneaking on a spaceship without permission. Winona only raises and eyebrow and assures him she’ll “sort it.”

There’s a ceremony.

“Mom, I don’t think-”

“Ah ah ah, stand still, I want to send a holo to grandpa Tiberius-”

There’s a ceremony.

Winona streams the whole thing for Sam and Auri, even though there’s an official broadcast which will undoubtedly be filled with less fawning mom commentary. As the cameras fix on him, his nerves kick into overdrive. Please, not now, he thinks, and stumbles over himself. Not enough that most people would notice, but he feels Spock’s concern, amplified by the bond. A gentle warmth in the centre of his chest, spreading outwards.

He seeks his face out in the crowd, and calms himself, as he looks to Bones, Uhura, Scotty, Chekhov and Sulu in turn. All of them had agreed to resume their commission on The Enterprise, although he’s glad the others were easier to persuade than Spock.

Be honest, Kirk thinks, as he tunes out of the lengthy preamble. Which was more convincing? Prime’s logical arguments, or mine?

Spock raises an eyebrow, and fixes a determined gaze on the podium in front of them. Jim grins, and, as he turns away, he swears he can see Spock blushing. Bones is trying to catch his eye, probably to glare him into behaving, so he straightens up, smiles, and walks over to Pike.

“I relieve you, sir.”

“I am relieved,” Pike says, with a tired smile.

He sounds like he means it.

It’s all a blur after that. Between all the celebrations and congratulations, it’s almost easy to forget what happened to Vulcan- unless you’re bonded to one.

The nightmares are the worst part. M’Benga says it’ll ease the further they get from the other Vulcans, when they’re back in space. It’ll be like this as long as they’re all clustered together like this, until everyone’s mental shields have begun to heal. Spock insists he’s fine- and, at any rate, he ‘requires less sleep than humans’- but, for the first few weeks, he relieves some variation of Vulcan’s destruction or Amanda’s death, each with terrifying intensity.

After the first month, it begins to get better. Some nights, it doesn’t happen at all- but, when it does, Jim is there to hold him, stroking his hair and whispering encouragement through the crying. Other nights are better. They fall into a pattern: meditating together- sometimes with the help of Poddle, when they happen to be in Spock’s apartment- as Jim talks to Spock about things, or Spock narrates words to Jim in Vulcan. Words he’s now closer to understanding.

“Are you flirting with me, Mr Spock?”

“Hush, Jim. You should be meditating.”

There are other things. A silent, unspoken language which goes beyond words, and would exist even without the telepathy between them. It’s a secret understanding, one which all Vulcans now share.

As far as he knows, there were only nine other Tarsus survivors from the initial massacre. A similar grief is now shared with about half a million others now. 500,000. more survivors than they’d dared to hope, but still not enough.

Too many broken links. He can see in the way that the two Vulcans follow Pike around that there are going to be many Vulcans remaining on Earth now. They’ve bonded with the people here just as deeply as they’ve bonded with the planet.

“Is it true what they say, that ‘fatherhood chooses you’?” Jim teases lightly, as Pike casts a protective look at T'Vena and Varesh.

“No,” Pike swats at him. “Fatherhood tracks you down across light-years, and demands you… adopt it.” He frowns to himself.

Jim hops out of the way. “How’s that head injury coming along?” He laughs.

“I’ll show you a head injury,” Pike mutters, as he wheels after Jim. Jim has always prided himself on being a bad influence, and, after mild encouragement, he gets T'Vena and Varesh to join in the game, too. What started as tag quickly turns into hide-and-seek, and Varesh “allows” himself to be caught by Pike, twice. T'Vena, despite being taller than her younger brother, is surprisingly good at hiding.

When Pike eventually catches Kirk, he gets him in a headlock, and ruffles his hair. (“Sorry, Captain, do you need a comb?”) Seeing this, Varesh places a hand to his bangs, wide-eyed, and declares that his hair is off-limits.

“You know, it is getting kind of long...” Pike muses, as he chases him from the room.

Jim never met George Kirk, but in moments like these, he thinks he understands what it may have meant to know him.

*

The first Vulcan is expected.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

“Permission granted, Mr Spock.”

Uhura and Sulu make gagging noises, and Jim is secretly relieved that Bones and Chapel are currently contained in the medibay, because he doubts he could survive the impact of their concentrated wit. Still, the friendship between Sulu and Uhura could pose problems. He narrows his eyes.

“I don’t have to transfer you, do I, helmsman?”

“No, sir,” Sulu grins.

The second Vulcan is less expected.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” Asks T’Nara.

Jim glances at Spock.

‘She asked you, Captain,’ Spock says, neutrally.

‘Yes… But can you cope with having another emotionally-compromised telepath aboard, given what happened… Last time?’

‘Captain. The trip to New Vulcan will take only a couple of days,’ Spock assures him. ‘At which point, T’Nara and I will be the only Vulcans aboard.’

‘Well, if you’re sure...’ Jim nods to Scotty. “Permission granted.”

Shimmering yellow light, and the outline of a deep blue science uniform. “Captain.” T’Nara raises a ta’al. “Science officer T’Nara of Earth reporting for duty.”

“Of Earth?”

T’Nara glances to someone behind him. “My roommate informed me it is called an ‘inside joke’.”

Jim follows her gaze to the other side of the bridge, where Gaila waves at him. He shakes his head, and bites back a smile. “I see. Well, you and your inside jokes are welcome aboard, T’Nara. I’m sure your- roommate- will show you to your post.”

“And our quarters,” she says, straight-faced, as she and Gaila exit the bridge.

Jim raises an eyebrow, and decides not to ask. If Second Officer Gary Mitchell should happen to get into a fistfight with T’Nara in the next few days, they at least have M’Benga on board to see to them. He’s heading to New Vulcan, but he’s sure Bones can deal with any additional fallout.

He smiles. He’s got a good feeling about this. Of course, he’s unaware of a certain small, neon ball of fluff in in Uhura’s quarters, but that’s a tribble for another day.

“Warp speed, Mr Sulu.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Sulu grins, as he takes them out of Earth’s space.